I kept nothing. Distance from my California home and shipping costs were one factor. Fear of winding up like this in another 25 years was another.
Working alongside me was my 20-year-old son, Mike, named after his grandfather. He is in his second year of college, considering a double major in physics and math. He has my dad’s powerful shoulders, blue eyes, competence and the same stubbornness that confounds me at times. You wouldn’t think such a trait could be passed through three generations.
Mike took only a small collection of hand tools that we used to set up his apartment in the Bronx. One life ends; another starts on its own road to independence.
At the end of our work, after Mike and I tossed the last piece into the Dumpster, after we cleaned up, ate dinner, packed for the next morning’s trip home and got ready for bed, I said, “Good night, Mike. I love you a lot.”
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