It is raining a coldish, shivery spring rain. I am sitting here at the computer in my “office”--the room which I still call ‘C----‘s room’--by the window, listening to the rain pouring down the downspout against the brick outer wall of our townhome and onto the ground.
This was just a few months after we had sold our house, had lived in a friend’s basement for four months while looking for work (both my husband and I had been laid off within months of each other), and moved into our rental townhome.
Either she will return ( I say to myself) after her army service is over for an extended break, or to find work, or to attend college in the States. Or we parents will pack up the house and move, taking all her stuff together with our decades-old junk in a lift. Whichever way it goes, her stuff is still hers—despite the fact that she insists we discard it all—and this is only a transitory state of affairs.