"Sweet men," she added, shaking her head at the c*ffin, "make poor planners."
My aunt's hands were shaking so badly she dropped her program.
Then Millicent looked at the plastic bag at my feet, the one with his folded uniform shirts that the fun*ral home had given back.
"The district would normally collect those," she said.
She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
"But honestly, dear, keep the rags."
I was eighteen years old.
I had no words.
I sat there with my father's shirts in my lap and said nothing at all.
She left before the service ended.
Now, in the gym, I looked from Millicent's face to Skylar's, and I finally understood where my classmates had gotten the word.
Rags.
It had come from a mouth in a kitchen with a marble island.
It had been handed down like a dinner recipe.
"Tom," Millicent said again, and her voice was bright and brittle. "I said that's enough."
