When my husband left me the house was in disarray.  T-shirts, pairs of jeans and towels on the floor.  Unwashed plates on the sink.  And the nearby closet was yanked open, the fragrance of mothballs was even more apparent in the blistering heat of July.   As I made my way across the cluttered kitchen I caught sight of the boxes of tools hauled out from the lower cabinets.  Some of these boxes were either not labeled or mislabeled unlike the time when Janus would find time to write in his clear-cut, draftsman’s hand the words “shelf nail screws”, “LED flashlight batteries”, or “zinc plated bolts” and organized them as if our kitchen were a hardware store.   Now somehow I pitied myself that out of ignorance I couldn’t even distinguish one screw bolt from other.  He didn’t teach me these things.  I shook my head, feeling a certain tinge of remorse.  It’s all over now.

Jessica and Lennie, my working colleagues at CompWares, called this morning to ask if I needed some help with the cleaning.  I chuckled at their excessive displays of concern about the state that I was in.  “Oh no, I’m fine really,” I countered, holding the phone on my right hand and a strip of wire on the other.  I was trying to disentangle the computer wires using my one hand.  I need to finish the project software soon because the deadline is today.

“Are you sure?” Lennie asked me again, her voice Continue reading