Toilet paper. That was the first thought that rolled across my mind this morning. Then I tore off the sheet and got out of bed. Toilet paper? Would it be over the top to write about it? It was stuck in the wrinkles of my brain last night. Frank McCourt in his memoir Angela’s Ashes told the story of going back to his father’s Ireland. He had to go the 2^nd number and that required him to use his grandpa’s outhouse. Nailed to the wall of the room-with-no-view was newsprint. His father had to instruct him.

I am a father too. I had to instruct too, butt  but not like my post-depression-era father—he used three sheets only, (single-ply, double-ply, or triple) only three. Sorry to put that image out there. Exit this post now and wipe it off. Geez.

What I really want to focus on is the empty…