My father and I were very close. Oftentimes, we would stroll through the streets together, talking and laughing. Once, we stopped at a shabby old store, and he bought me a lovely doll, with braided yarn as hair. It became one of my most prized possessions.
Years later, after my father had passed away, I still had that doll, worn though it was. My mother would stitch it back together again and again, the two of us reminiscing over the years when my father was alive. We would sit with a box of ignored pizza in between us, listening to the methodical sound of the sewing needle moving through fabric and conversing about my father. He was a good man.
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