A couple years ago, my dad, my baby brother, and I were playing "Would You Rather."
My brother asked my dad, "Would you rather have the superpower of always making a basketball shot, or always spelling every word correctly?"
My dad, who I don't think ever played basketball in his life, chose the former (which I guessed correctly). My baffled brother asked why. My dad and I answered in unison: he already spelled every word correctly, so it would be a waste of a superpower.
In his last weeks, my dad fretted over not having anything to leave me and my brother as an inheritance. But he did. He gave us the gift of poetry, of a certain delight in playing with words, and of the capacity for being left in breathless appreciation over each stumbled-upon flash of eloquence.