NOLAN
There was something undeniably soothing about watching Dad sing to the plants he watered. Perhaps it was the nostalgia that washed over me – his raspy voice crooning the same tunes I had grown up with. I had countless memories of watching Dad sing, and some of him telling me that what brought him the most peace was his unshaking conviction that the plants listened to him, that his melodies brought them joy.
Smiling in that inimitable way of his, Dad would say to me as a kid, "They adore this tune the most." What I found utterly captivating about Dad singing to his plants could be distilled into one word: vulnerability. My father was a tough cookie, capable of besting anyone in town, bar my mother and a handful of werewolves. Yet, he didn't concern himself with projecting an image
