The Morning After My Son’s Funeral, an Airport Worker Called and Said, “Your Son Checked In”

not make myself handle a bag my son had packed with his own hands.

In the zippered pocket on the inside of the lid, there was one more envelope.

It was addressed to me in David’s handwriting, but not in the careful print he used on labels. In his regular hand, the fast slanted one he’d had since high school.

Inside was a single sheet of notebook paper.continue reading …