These Butlers Are Neither Carson Nor Hudson

I looked around my mother’s apartment and down into the box, swallowing the lump in my throat and holding back tears ready to race down my cheeks — because they weren’t just things. They were him. They were my father. They were pieces of his life.

Hair holds memory, but so do inanimate objects. That’s why we hold onto heirlooms, keep photos, make qu

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