ticket

I said,

I’m in the car with Ron, going to New Jersey with those of my most valuables that will shelter in place.

Soon I will go to the airport, and I will check in with one hopes little trouble — Dad called for a second time to tell me that probably it will be a problem that my ticket is missing the middle name on my passport — and then we — me and everyone else moving to Denmark — will get on the plane and, with luck, sleep all the way to the new day.

She said,

I have deep feelings of envy and pride for what you are doing

I said,

When will things be normal again?

She said,

This is the new normal isn’t it.

I said,

It feels bad right now.

She said,

Oh well it will only feel like this for a very very short time, like less time than a transatlantic flight.

I said,

I didn’t do the dishes or make the beds or hang all the things on the wall so that it’s nice for the subletter.

She said,

Are you packed?

I said,

Having asked a few questions, Ron says no, I am not packed.