In the bedroom of his new flat, the youngest one and I are diligently working on assembling a flatpack bed. We’re on our hands and knees, grappling with the instructions and the various components. “I believe I’ve figured it out,” I confidently state. “Please pass me another pegule.” My son complies, but I clarify, “Not the short pegule, the long one.”
Assembling flatpack furniture demands more than just counting the parts; it requires naming them as well. Each piece is unfamiliar, and the instructions consist of nothing but pictograms. We have the power to assign names and identities to these nameless objects.
“I think this front ladderation is misoriented,” I remark, examining the pieces. My son counters, “No, it’s correct. The pegule holes align perfectly.” I gesture towards the back ladderation and assert, “But the back ladderation should line up too.” He concedes, saying, “Perhaps.”
“Let’s stand it up this way,” I suggest, indicating a specific orientation. “And hand me four of the plastic tube hats.”
Since my son’s new flat is conveniently located near our house, he has been gradually moving out over the past two weeks. However, once this bed is assembled, he will officially reside elsewhere for the very first time. His university experience in London was marked by strikes and the pandemic, which essentially transformed his bedroom into a classroom.
Back at home, my wife stands by the door as our son walks out with his final two bags. “I’m not going to make a big deal out of this,” she states.
“I might return tomorrow if the internet isn’t set up yet,” he casually remarks.
“I know,” she replies with a calm demeanor. “That’s why I’m refraining from making a fuss.”
Within minutes of his departure, my wife ascends the stairs to vacuum his old bedroom. When I check on her an hour later, I notice that the bed has been relocated to a different wall. “I want that cupboard removed,” she instructs, pointing to a corner. “We don’t need it anymore.”
“Alright,” I agree, ready to comply with her request.
“I’m feeling overwhelmed,” she confesses.
“I understand,” I comfortingly respond.
The next day, I find myself at the supermarket, struggling to perform simple calculations that would transform a meal for four into one for three. I contemplate eating more to compensate for the discrepancy.
Upon my return home, my oldest son drops by while on his way back from a rainy holiday in Cornwall, carrying two bags of dirty laundry. He had taken our dog with him and is now returning him.
“So, we managed to move him out over the weekend,” my wife informs my eldest, referring to our youngest son. “He took the last of his belongings yesterday.”
“Does that mean his room is available?” my oldest son inquires. “I might just stay here tonight.”
“The bed is made,” my wife assures him.
“I may have to get more food then,” I remark, recalculating our meal requirements.
“I won’t be here for dinner,” my wife interjects. “I’m going to watch the Barbie movie.”
“Alright,” I acknowledge. “So, back to three.”
“I won’t be here either,” adds the middle one. “I’m also going to see Barbie.”
“I already watched it in Cornwall,” shares the oldest. “It’s fantastic.”
“That leaves us with two,” I conclude.
My wife and the middle one leave, and soon after, the youngest son drops by on his way home from work, restoring our number to three. I revise my calculations and suggest, “I might need you to go to the shop for a single chicken thigh and some wine.”
“I have wine at my flat,” he replies.
“In that case, go get it,” I respond.
“Can I see your flat?” the oldest son chimes in.
“Sure, come along,” the youngest invites.
Suddenly, I find myself alone, with only the dog and cat staring at me. A dark cloud passes in front of the setting sun, and rain begins to drum against the skylight.
Forty-five minutes later, the oldest and the youngest return, bearing six beers and three-quarters of a bottle of white wine.
“Where’s the chicken?” I inquire.
“Oops, I forgot,” my oldest admits.
It’s nearly 9:30 PM when I finally manage to serve the meal. Just as we start eating, my wife returns home. The middle one follows suit 20 minutes later, completing the family gathering.
I find myself in the midst of a boisterous discussion about the Barbie movie. The beer has been consumed, and the last remnants of the wine occupy my glass.
“Ken is incredible,” praises the oldest. “And the music is unexpectedly great.”
“I absolutely loved it,” my wife adds.
The room fills with an unprecedented level of noise, as everyone shares and watches clips from the Barbie movie on their phones, erupting in laughter.
“I saw Oppenheimer,” I attempt to contribute, but my words fall on deaf ears.
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