The yard of this house was very large. It had a broad, sloping lawn dotted with clumps of trees. To the left of the deck chairs was a rather large concrete-lined pond, its empty bottom exposed to the sun. Judging from its greenish tinge, it had been without water for some time. We sat with our backs to the house, which was visible through a screen

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

It may be the very uselessness of cut flowers, beyond the pleasure they give, that has made them a superlative gift, embodying the generosity and anti-utilitarianism of gift-giving.