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

her four years earlier at a work dinner downtown. She was striking in the way certain people are striking, beautiful in a way that worked best when others were watching. She had a son already, Brett, twenty-two, with a permanent look of mild contempt carved into his face. When David introduced her to me, Tara shook my hand like she was doing me a favor.continue reading …