Thursday I came home to a stack of store-bought boxes.

“What are these for?”

“Oh, we found a place.  We get keys tomorrow.  We’re moving out.”

“Oh.”

Zayn, who thinks slowly, then asks, “Do you need help?  I can stay.”

“No.  We’re doing this slowly.  We’ll move things in bit by bit, and move the bed last.  Probably take about a week.”

“Oh.  Well, I can stay and help, if you like.”

“No.”

I left for the weekend as planned, on Friday.  Sunday, 5.32 pm, I am back.  No one home.  No milk in the fridge.  A Trader Joe’s run.  Still no one home.  I open the bedroom door.  No bed.

I called a friend and went to the Laemmle to see The Way.  Seemed most appropriate to see a transformative journey along the Camino de Santiago de Compostela dealing with the loss of a son.

I’m back.  No one is home.

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