My Father’s Shoes

By Marcia Aldrich

old_brown_shoe-khanh-hmoong-squareThe day my father died, my husband and I drove in the bright, tilted light of autumn, past farms, pastures, and ponds, finally arriving at the orchard. We parked the car, picked up two half-bushel bags to fill, and walked up the trail of powdered dust, fine as confectioner’s sugar, that led to the grove. That’s when I noticed them—my father’s shoes on my husband’s feet. Read More in River Teeth.

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