I was still seated at my office desk yesterday at 5:05 p.m., the day before my vacation was to start, when my boss stepped into my office for the first time that day. By then I’d already shut down my computer. I was adding some files to an accordion folder before me, so I could throw it in my bike bag to take home. I’d be out of the office for over two weeks. I was pushing the limits of my vacation time and felt a little uncomfortable about it. I saw no choice but to take some work to finish from the road. Continue reading
It was one year ago this July when C and I flew home from Berlin while M stayed on one last week with our two other daughters: playing a few recitals, saying a few more goodbyes, wrapping up our affairs. M walked through the apartment with the landlord one last time; he returned borrowed items to the neighbors: mattress, floor lamp, patio table and chairs. And he asked our friend Doris to drive him to the post office to ship home a few boxes, the odds and ends of our accumulations in Berlin.
I picture Doris pulling up in front of our yellow apartment building in her small hatchback, waving to M up on the balcony. I can see her climbing the red carpeted stairs up to our flat once, twice, to help him carry down the three heavy boxes he’d prepared to send—boxes packed with our family’s winter coats and boots, the handcut wooden puzzles we found in Paris, hiking boots, stuffed animals, and other random items too cumbersome to fit in the remaining suitcases.
There was one last box that wasn’t quite ready to be sealed up and put in the trunk of the car when Doris arrived. Continue reading