Chapter xiv
xiv
AFTER DINNER, I ZIPPED UP MY DUFFEL AND SHOULDER bag and called a car to take me to JFK. Whenever I travel internationally now, I think of you. I think of boarding that flight to Israel, of how sick I felt. And then I think of boarding the flight home. I was a zombie, barely functioning, my body wrung dry from so many tears, holding on to my sanity by a fraying string.
For a while, I didn’t want to travel at all, and now, when I do, I always think of that trip.
Before I’d left my house that evening, I’d gone into your boxes again. I took your copy of All the Light We Cannot See . I’d promised you that I would read the book for you, finish what you started. And on the flight to Italy, I finally did. Maybe that was the first step, Gabe— the first step of finishing what we started, of making space for more.