I wish my father smoked cigarettes. His home, the colonel’s base, stood a transient
wasteland. A flag, folded in a triangle, framed above the mantel. A stove so clean it tasted of bright
metal. A bag of cornflakes neatly pinned in its box.

        The furniture, pristine but ordinary. A brown recliner slightly oiled from bare forearms and
calves. A gray couch covered in a beige blanket. A finished coffee table with one coaster. I made a
note to return the John Grisham book to the library on Monday.
        I found myself in his closet. I saw my high school graduation in his blue dress uniform, the
shine of the medals on the dresser. The shoe brush heralded Sunday mornings as he prepared for
church, scuffing out errors I couldn’t perceive. The sizzle of the iron along the sleeves of his button
downs, the chest of his white t-shirts. I buried my nose deep in the sleeve of a cable knit sweater and
smelled only the vague talcum of baking soda. I grabbed it off the hanger, wrapped the medals and
brush inside, and stuffed it deep inside my bag.
        His angular bed stood taut and repressed. I grazed my fingers along the edge, creating a
crevasse in my wake. The pills of the cotton pillowcase irritated me; I removed them with tweezers.
        I called the estate company to let them know they could sell everything left behind. It’s in
good condition, I told them, no stains or smells.