I am not here

A cloudy, cool Saturday morning in Portland, and I am sitting, listening to music, and drinking coffee. In familiar surroundings, our dining room, where I can look out the big window, and see little but green shrubs and trees.

My dog sleeps on his dog-bed, in a corner of the kitchen. Maisie is still alive, still eating a little, still affectionate, but she spends most of her time sitting motionlessly and staring. It's hard to tell how much she is aware of her condition - the vet said that she certainly has some abdominal discomfort.

We fly to New York at midnight tonight, so there are about 12 hours left to make the final decisions about what to take and what else to do around the house. So, even though I am where I often am, my familiar places and objects will be very distant in a couple of days. It's quite odd.

We hope to visit Ellis Island tomorrow afternoon. I can't help thinking about my grandpa Ben, who left Lithuania in 1902, never to return to his homeland. I will make a photocopy of the photocopy of his steamship ticket, which he saved his entire life. I will show it to my boys tomorrow.

Then, I go back a few more generations, to HIS distant ancestors, who left Spain in 1492, never to again see that homeland. I am about to complete that circle, and the spirit of my family will return to the streets of Toledo, after an absence of over 500 years.

Now I am day-dreaming. Portland seems less solid. I am not here.