In the year since my father died my grief lost its fangs. One morning this summer, though, I awoke and could think of nothing but my father. As if Dad’s spirit put a spell on me, I craved his musty, old closet smell. I longed to see him in his old man outfit of suspenders and forty-year-old brown polyester slacks. My ears hungered to hear his scorched voice on the phone, his habit of clearing his throat before he said hello.