Only a thin pane of glass separated me from the rain. I watched it roll down the other side, and wondered if some other window had shed similar tears on that day. I tossed a sweater in a suitcase, considering for a moment how such a common object could have saved him. But he had no glass, no sweater, and probably no such tears.

In the bathroom I stuffed a clear vinyl pouch with society’s survival kit: toothpaste, razor, aspirin. Someone probably gave him such a kit during one of his final days in some church basement more concerned over his soul than his survival. Probably a Gideon’s New Testament in that bag too. The last one I saw had an orange cover; such things need sprucing up I guess. I wonder if he packed one for his trip, or if such a thing is needed wherever he went.

I packed all the requisite black: suit, tie, shoes. Color would take away from the occasion; someone might accidentally crack a smile. I closed the suitcase wondering if I should pack a somber attitude or if one would be furnished at the door.

I would have liked to pack balloons, confetti, party hats. I would have stood on the dock, waving and calling “bon voyage”.