I don’t know if men carry briefcases anymore. I rarely see them, except in an airport, swinging madly from some man’s flailing arm as he races to catch a flight, bumping meanly into everyone else’s thighs. Or, I might see one leaning formally against a wall, trying to pretend it has somewhere better to be.
But I remember my dad had one. It was flat, camel colored, boasting a few scuffs, scars of a job well done. I don’t think it was one of those david king briefcases, but it was the stuff memories are made of.