Much Ado about NOTHING

When my father died last spring, almost a year ago now, I inherited a closet full of his clothes. Unlike my two brothers, my father and I were the same size, so I got the wardrobe -- or what I wanted from it. Much of it I didn't want: shirts with cigarette burn holes in them (my father smoked, one of the reasons he isn't with us today); polyester ties; corduroy pants; sweatshirts with team logos (not my style); etc. There was some nice stuff, too, including some shirts I can wear to work, well-made sportcoats and shoes that fit.

And then there's the black leather jacket. That surprised me -- I never saw my father wear it, and I can't picture him dressed in black leather. It's hard for me to picture myself in black leather, too, though now that the weather has warmed up a bit, I've been wearing it. It makes me feel different somehow. More beat, like some cool jazz dude. Or something. I wonder if that's why he bought it -- to feel different. If so, that's okay by me. Better than cigarettes and booze, any day.