I put on my dad’s robe this morning. It’s plaid with blues and grays and blacks criss-crossing over a fabric that is too soft to be made from natural fibers. It has a nice long belt that, decades ago, would have been made into a headband to wear
by Noelle Anderson
I could get a job. But I didn’t want to. There wasn’t enough “easy money” in the world to get me into a pair of khakis with any type of enthusiasm.
You could just tell that it was picked carefully, and with love.
One early June afternoon, I got a call from my big sister. She told me that she had something to tell me, her voice growing shakier with each word. She took a breath and told me that my father was dead. The memory of that day just drifted in last