There are stickers on my husband’s car for an army base in Alabama. I keep them there because of my father.

The day I pulled out my father’s things so my husband could drive it back to Texas I cried like a baby. It was one more step toward the acceptance of loss.

Every once in a while I smell smoke on cloth. A certain kind of cloth–the kind they make flight suits out of. I remember my father, even though he never smoke a day in his life.

For years and years the army had no prohibitions against smoking. Father came home each day saturated in the smell of his co-workers’ cigarettes.

I miss him.

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