My father's jacket and crumbs in the pocket

The jacket on my couch.

My father died four years ago. My mother died five months later. I think of them every day. I miss them. Sometimes when I think of them I feel very sad, and alone.

When my father died I took some of his things. I took his wallet home from the hospital. I felt guilty when I opened it and removed the $30. I felt like I was stealing. "Dad, can I have the $30 in your wallet?" But he was not there to ask.

Today, after dinner, I walked to the beach here in Ocean City, Wash., to burn off too much pasta. I was alone. The sun was setting. It was peaceful and gorgeous.

It was cold, perhaps mid 40s. I put my hands in the pocket of my jacket to warm them. In the left pocket I felt tiny crumbs. And then I remembered: it was my father's jacket. I inherited it, too. I keep it in my motorhome closet. I wear it only on trips.

The crumbs were the tiny remains of Kibbles -- treats my father fed to his Pomeranian Lucy. He adored that dog. Lucy and my father were inseparable.

My sister inherited Lucy. My father would have been glad he died first. He told me he did not want to go before Lucy. That's how much he loved her. Lucy outlived him by two years.

ALMOST EVERY EVENING my father would walk Lucy to the nursing home behind his house in Grass Valley, Calif., where she would entertain. "Dance, Lucy," my father would command. And Lucy would stand on her hind legs and circle around until he fed her a Kibble. My father would smile proudly and the residents would cheer.

So there I was this evening, on the beach, wearing my father's jacket. I thought of him. I wanted to laugh and I wanted to cry. But I did neither. I just walked slowly back to my motorhome, tossing the crumbs into the air.