my desk. Then I stride through the house and enter my bedroom. My private domain. I drape my garment bag across the bed and lay several suits inside. Methodically, I pack my toiletries. I open the top dresser drawer and push aside the perfectly folded undershirts. In the darkest recesses my fingers latch onto a small velvet pouch. With careful movements, I tug the string and tip the bag on its side. Out slides a nearly empty bottle of women’s perfume. I bring it to my nose and inhale, pulling in the scent of lilacs. I bought this bottle for her birthday eight years ago. It’s the only thing of
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