I keep thinking about the two strange habits my father had.
When he ate chicken wings, he always lined the bones up in the tidiest way, so each wing would still have all its bones together and in place.
Whenever he finished his Filet-O-Fish sandwich at McDonald's, he always folded the wrapping paper neatly. He would never crumple it up.
The bones would eventually be discarded. The paper would be, too. But the way he treated the remains of his food was almost like performing a sacred ritual — a proper burial before the end.
