As those of you who read my personal blog know, my beloved father died very suddenly on September 6. My brother and sister and I have been slowly going through his things together, and it's a task that's been both heartbreaking and also really special for us. I am so glad we three have been able to do this together, and he would have been glad too, as his fondest wish as a parent was to make sure that his three children stick together. (And we do.)
Some of the things we've sorted have been valuable or meaningful - like the family china I inherited, and some of the major journalism awards he won over the years. But others have been more mundane. And frankly, it's this stuff that has been hardest to touch, and to smell...and to box up.
Like, for example, this box of his shoes.

Seeing those battered Docksiders on top of the pile of shoes he left behind sent me into paroxysms of fresh grief. I think he wore and repaired that same pair for nearly 30 years. They just look like my father.
There is something so bonecrushingly sad about seeing the junk and the glory left behind when we die. This is what remains when we leave this earth: a pair of broken reading glasses, a favorite bathrobe, a half-finished book on the bedside. And a box of shoes.
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