I arrived
home this morning, after the overnight flight from California. Coming into the
empty apartment was melancholy, with no one to say, “Welcome home, baby,” and
give me a big hug and kiss. I had to whisper “welcome home” to myself, a poor
substitute for Jack’s voice.
Everything
was as I left it, the eggs I’d left for Christie gone from the refrigerator.
But as I wheeled my suitcase to my room, I was surprised to see books on the
floor. They’d fallen off a bookshelf. Why? How?
The brackets holding
the shelf were all there. The sides of the bookcase were in place. I replaced
everything, but it was unsettling. I don’t really believe it was Jack’s ghost
urging me to get rid of books – but there was one book that was a duplicate (The Encyclopedia of New York City), and
I’ve been meaning to donate it to a library. It went onto the pile by the front
door.
In the
evening I opened 25 days’ worth of postal mail, which took an hour and a half!
Most of it was junk, but there were a few bills I’d forgotten to take care of, some
checks, and several magazines. Lots of reading to catch up with.
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