On January 2, 2009, my father was admitted to Baptist Medical Center Beaches in Jacksonville, Florida. When it became clear that multiple organs were failing, and he kept asking for a gun, my brother and I rode with him in the ambulence to a hospice center, where my father passed a mere seven hours later. During that time, Jacksonville had a freak cold spell and out of habit, I raided Dad’s closets for warmer clothes. His oversized, v-neck rayon-polyester-blend white and baby blue sweaters were super soft and made great nightshirts. His bright orange socks and tassled boat shoes were great for yardwork and cleaning away the grimy evidence of his daily routines with his dog Baron, who might be part Vizsla.
I brought a few treasures back with me: a red canvas belt with leather around the buckle that had been looped in the pants of a yellow suit. A school ring with an amber stone found in a red Cartier box in the garage. Dad's things carried a special weight, a way to keep him close, a way he could not refuse, and they are sprinkled throughout my closet.
