‘The honeysuckle has to come with us,’ my wife says. ‘It’s got my mother’s ashes in it’
The packing takes two days. At the end of the first day, my office has been stripped of everything except the desk. I carry a kitchen chair up the stairs, and I sit there, pretending everything is normal.
That night, my wife, the oldest one and I go to the Thai restaurant over the road. The conversation is dominated by last things: nearby places we might not happen across for years to come; people we might see again as soon as next week, or as late as never. We over-order, just in case.