My father’s apron still has flour in the pocket

Dear Delyara, My father owned a bakery for forty-nine years. He died in January, and we sold the business because none of us wanted the hours he had given it. Today, while clearing the storage room, I found his apron hanging behind the door. There was flour in the pocket. Real flour, still trapped in the corners with two coins and a folded shopping list. I put the apron on. I am a lawyer. My hands have never known dough the way his did. The apron smelled faintly of yeast, smoke, and the soap Mum bought in enormous bottles. My brother took a photograph of me and laughed because it reached my knees. Dad was shorter. That almost made me cry harder than anything else. I spent years embarrassed that he smelled like bread when he collected me from school. Other fathers wore suits. Mine had flour on his eyebrows. Today, I stood inside that old apron wishing every expensive jacket in my wardrobe smelled like his work. We threw away sacks of expired ingredients and broken trays. I brought the apron home without washing it. There is flour on the passenger seat of my car now. For once, I do not care about the mess.