I’m worried he won’t come back, because it’s exactly what I did, 30 years ago to the month
On Sunday morning I notice a flat black rectangle, wrapped in plastic, sitting on the kitchen table. It’s a brand new piece of luggage, a reminder that the middle one is off to America, to seek his fortune in the land of his father.
For a long time, while his trip was in the planning stages, the departure date moved in step with the calendar: it was always three months away. It continued to do this in my head, even after plane tickets were purchased. He made his preparations; I made none. My wife comes downstairs, coughing.
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