My father was a storyteller.  Every night while he was brushing my teeth he would weave a tale to pass the time.  A common subject was the character Liller and his brother Diller, two foolish rabbit hunters who were never able to outsmart their prey.  Each night ended the same way, with Liller and Diller running back to their cabin after a failed mission, slamming the door, and “not coming out for two weeks!” we would proclaim together, me mumbling around my toothbrush.  

There were other stories too, I am sure of it, but they are now just memories and memories fade.  My father has been dead for eight years and I can no longer remember what his voice sounded like.  Our times spent together creating magical adventures have blurred into the rest of my childhood.  There is one however, that has been preserved and it may be the most special of all.     

“Long ago in the little village of Atella, all the buttons in Mr. Devereux’s button bowl were happy, except one.”  This is the first line of The Littlest Button, just another story my father used to tell me.  The difference is he wrote it down.  It is four pages long, around one thousand words and still has his notes in the margins for he was a complete perfectionist.  While no mere paper and ink can ever replace him, when I read it I can imagine that I am curled up in his lap listening to his rich baritone.  Whenever I begin to panic that the past is slipping away from me and that I will truly lose him forever, this story gives me comfort.  

The title page reads The Littlest Button by Paul Di Senso.  To me it simply says, “love, Dad”.