I wanted to tell you about my father’s coffin – made by him, to fit – about ten years ago. A beautiful work of art. It serves now (he’s still alive) as his cupboard. Shelves for folded shirts. Rail to hang clothes. Coats to hang on the side, handles fashioned into/doubled up as hooks, his shoes at the bottom. The beauty of this is how he has made into furniture, made common place of what scares the rest of us to death. On the front outside are pictures (framed photographs) of his four wives and his four children. The four wives are at his feet.
