The Morning After My Son’s Funeral An Airport Worker Called About The Bag He Left Behind

to rest less than eighteen hours earlier.

I put on my coat, walked past Tara’s closed door, past Brett’s closed door, through the silent house, and drove to the airport with both hands on the wheel and one thought running steady and quiet as a metronome.

David left me something.

The bag was an old navy-blue carry-on. On the interior lining, written in continue reading …