Levi Strauss & Co.

When he dies, my father turns into a small stone on the bed. A smooth oval I weigh in my palm, grip, and then, after a minute, draw circles over with my thumb. He glints against the light from the window, the speckled gray of him—except where a small streak of dark blue runs through his center. Hushed river, my father, he fits perfectly in the small front pocket of my jeans, where cowboys used to keep watches. I am no cowboy, but I tip my hat as I leave the room. Outside, the air carries the scent of a just-mown lawn, its deep pulp. I pat my pocket, and it feels good that he is there. I carry my father around with me like this for days, checking for him at the hip. There is no need for us to speak.