This shirt. It still smells like him. I did what I could to wrap it tightly so the scent would never leave, but I know it will eventually.
I have the lunch box he carried.
The Bible, my grandma got as a little girl, was the same one they used on their wedding day and the same one my husband and I used on ours.
A picture of them on their honeymoon.
Their everyday dishes.
But the shirt. It’s what I want to hold tightly, along with the memories.
If I were a machine learning about humans, this would be the most puzzling thing. How can something simultaneously buoy your heart and constrict your throat?
How can an old man’s work shirt be so treasured?
It seems unbelievable until you read that raggedy Bible. Then you realize that people are sent here on assignment to bring Heaven down, to give you a taste of the everlasting beauty that will someday be our permanent residence.