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

late October. The air in Nashville had turned cool. I wore the charcoal wool jacket I had owned for twelve years, the one I had worn to court dozens of times, always from the other side of the bar.

Tara arrived dressed plainly, not in the calculated composition she had worn to earlier hearings. Her hands were folded in her lap. She sat very still, looking continue reading …