Six years ago, at 5 o’clock in the morning on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, my dad died. He was in his bed at home at the edge of the woods, five miles outside a northern Connecticut town. Outside: five inches of fluffy snow. A muffled world: with no breeze, each twig, every branch, was coated with white cotton. Only tiny birds came to the windows and danced on the lawn outside the dining room. Five wild turkeys slowly circled the house. They had been circling for days, as if weaving us into the warmth a … (read more)
