At My Father’s Ceremony They Said I Could Not Do Anything Right Until I Walked In And Smiled

in that way, more alike than I had acknowledged.

The smell of coffee reached the guest room before I heard my father moving around below. I got up, folded the quilt back into the cedar chest, and went downstairs.

He was at the stove, wearing the same robe he had owned for at least fifteen years. He had already laid out two cups. The stovetop percolator continue reading …