I heard about Justice Scalia’s death at one of my last dinners with my beloved, if complicated, father. Months on, as the justice’s seat sat unfilled, so did Dad’s.
When my daughter died, I hated the sun for rising without her. I wept as the world turned green and flowers burst open. But the backyard birds were a different story.
Shopping there is my wildly commercialized way of keeping my Swedish grandmother’s legacy alive. (Plus, family recipes for Swedish ginger snaps and coffee cake.)
Four years after my grandmother’s death, I was determined to track down — and thank — the mortuary staffer whose kindness (and name) I will never forget.
From rejecting perfectly good restaurant food to donating to worthy causes, I'm spending the first Father's Day after my dad's death trying to emulate his character.