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.