Deepest Wound

Bruce DeSilva: My father's ankle-length, black-and-white tweed Mayfield, the first fine piece of clothing he bought for himself when he returned from the war, hangs still in my crowded closet. Once a year I slip it from the hanger and try it on, always astonished that I cannot squeeze into the giant's coat.

I picture him draped in it, towering over me as we stand beside his robins-egg blue 1948 Plymouth coupe, a snap-brim fedora pulled low over his twinkling eyes, his mouth curled in the confident smile of a man who knows he helped save the world.

But behind his eyes something dark lurked.