For awhile in 2005, I carried around a white, cotton handkerchief that was worn soft from use after my father, Dabney, died suddenly and quietly at the age of 81. The handkerchiefs were a small connection back to him that I could hold up against my cheek and feel his presence once again. It’s a paltry replacement but it made the pain of losing him as a touchstone of advice and bad jokes a little easier to bear until time and the rhythm of life took over and carried me out into a new pattern.That’s the way it is when events upend our routines and snatch away the people who know everything about us and yet continue to come back for more.