It happens. A close relative dies. One who lives elsewhere. And then some time has to be set aside, even if no such thing is possible. Because of work, because of a lack of funds when it comes to traveling.
His hair declared him his own bohemian, a middle-class free spirit with a mortgage to pay down, a racing bike, a subscription to Netflix, and a frau as deceptively frail as Hans Memling’s palest Madonna.