The night after we lit the memorial candle to commemorate my father's death, I woke up to the news that Franco Harris had died. He helped the Pittsburgh Steelers win four Super Bowls in six years back in the 70s. And then I ended up having this recurring dream about Franco Harris for a couple of years. It was a very involved dream where he was somewhere between a father figure and a messiah.
Is sobbing a survival tactic? What happened when Angela wept in front of her boss? And what do sauerkraut and sadness have in common?