It started yesterday, just a flash of that familiar gnawing, nagging feeling of dread. It’s what happens before every departure, whether it’s my children leaving me, or it’s me leaving my family. My son, GL, returned to his last semester at college in the States, where he will probably remain after graduation. His next planned visit will be next Christmas. He left early this morning and I am here this evening looking tearily first at his empty room, and then, across the hall, at his slippers which he has left tucked neatly underneath the table in front of the sofa. It’s the sight of his empty slippers which grabs my heart – like awaiting a phantom presence. I’ll be fine tomorrow. It’s like a molecular composition; a component of my being is pulled out, torn away, and I have to recompose myself into a whole. I have plenty of practice, 31 years of it. In the very beginning of this story of separation, which feels like the story of my life, it was the division of my life with my twin which tore me asunder. Tore us both. 31 years of recomposing myself; 31 years of building a life here in Switzerland.