The following story is a tribute to my father, Richard J. Taylor MD, who passed away almost four years ago. He was a truly remarkable man who touched many people's lives.

Over time, photographs begin to fade. The vibrant colors that once embodied the forms of grinning faces slowly transform into an indistinguishable grey blur, causing the photo to lose its appeal to the eye. However, one particular photograph in my possession has yet to lose the sharpness of its picture, and in my mind its image will never fade. In it, I sit propped up on my father's lap, displaying my small, pearly teeth and leaning my head towards the warmth of my father. He wears a soft smile below his signature mustache, revealing his content state. We sit looking at the camera, with his arm around my little body, and my shoulder overlapping his. Today, the photograph hangs on the wall across from the same chair that the picture was taken in: a brown, leather recliner that allows one to sink into the cushions and relish its warmth. I stand in front of it, looking at the photograph and soaking in the memories that my father and I shared in the old leather chair.

I slowly sit down, taking up more space than I did fifteen years ago. As I pull my knees up to my chest, I submerge myself into the comfortable world that I have known all along with this chair. This chair was my father's chair. He would retreat to it in the sitting area of his bedroom where it sat in front of the fireplace. It was an evening ritual for him to seek out this favorite spot, this favorite chair, to relax, to read, and to nap. I would sneak into his room to find him stretched out on the recliner, and then I would gently hop into his lap, resting my head on his sturdy shoulder. He would run his fingers through my hair, smoothly twisting it around to make temporary ringlets. I'd curl up into a ball and inhale the pleasant smell of his cologne. Some nights I'd fall asleep in the chair with him, and he'd carry me to my room and tuck me into bed. Other nights when it was getting late, my father would say goodnight to me in his affectionate New-England accent, and I would reluctantly get off the chair and head into my bedroom.

I shake off these memories and look around. Sitting on the table next to the chair is an old-fashioned radio. I turn the dial until I find a station playing soft jazz music. The sound from the radio becomes fainter, and soon I am back in my father's room. I hear my father's rough, jazzy voice humming one of his favorite songs. I start to sing along in my high, childish voice, resting my head on my father's sturdy chest. As we sing the lyrics of "Amazing Grace", I feel the vibrations of his voice go through his chest and connect with my voice. Our voices combine to form one sound that sweetly soars through the air.

As the song on the radio ends, I reach for the book on the arm of the leather chair. The book, Sophie's World, is one I read this summer, but the books adorning this chair have constantly changed. One of my father's greatest pleasures was reading, and together we were transported into the different worlds of many books. I remember his sonorous voice depicting the scene of tiny men tying down the giant Gulliver. His excitement was contagious as I learned about Jo's adventures into the big city in Little Women. As I grew older, my father would share with me his own books such as Guns, Germs, and Steel; The Boxer Rebellion;and Peter the Great. My father would stop every so often to elaborate on some minute detail about an event in history. I would listen, fascinated by his knowledge and wanting to know more.

I reach down for the handle that reclines the leather chair to its fullest position. I close my eyes and see my father in this same position. He would be so peaceful until I came stomping into his room to inform him of his teenage daughter's latest disaster. Having experienced these interruptions with my two older siblings, his advice would always prove to be comforting. Although I was getting too big for the chair to hold both me and my father, I would still sit on his lap and let my tears roll down my face and onto the chair. My father would embrace me in his arms and tell me not to forget that I should always be happy and not to let anything get in the way of achieving that goal.

I sit alone in my father's chair, feeling the slick leather that encompasses the recliner and sinking farther down. The chair still holds his warmth, and his smell still lingers. I no longer have the luxury of hearing the soothing words or the melodic singing of my father, but the memories will always be with me. A tune from the musical Wicked floats through my head, one that my father never had a chance to hear, but one I regularly sing to him:

"So much of me is made of what I learned from you.

You'll be with me like a handprint on my heart.

Who can say if I've been changed for the better?

But, because I knew you, I have been changed for good" (Schwartz).