The inertia of his belongings puzzled me: The cracked leather slippers that seemed still to contain his feet, the neat roll of half-eaten mints, the sweat-burnished wallet — My grandfather’s passing when I was a child introduced me to the strange stillness left to survivors. After the funeral, I wrapped his gold wire glasses in the belt of my brown corduroy coat, dug my fingernails deep into the soft moss of the backyard, and buried them.
What They Leave Behind
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