I am starting the Saturday ritual upstairs of moving the old boxes from the new bedroom back into the old bedroom when the doorbell rings. I’m not startled when it comes. They say old sounds are like this. I move to the window and call out to Lara. Her head cocks back and her grey streaks follow as if caught on wind. I take this as a sign of good will.
She comes in, walks the fourteen steps up, and says, Terry, boy, you moving again?
I am carrying boxes packed with relics from our time together, those which I cannot seem to let go and so I move them and move them again, a process that’s taken me three Saturdays and hasn’t progressed much.
Repacking, I say.
Strange. You have a smoke?