Two days before my father's funeral, I stepped through the door of 951 A, a modest apartment; Dad's for the past 35+ years. There was a lot to take in, viscerally and emotionally.

It’s amazing how an epic journey can start with a small, serendipitous step. My first step was motivated by, of all things, my back.

Possibly my favorite time of day during the work week is the 20 minutes or so between dropping my daughter off at daycare and pulling into the parking lot at work. It may be the only time during the day where I’m all alone.

My husband, Brian, left for New Orleans early this morning, carrying two overstuffed bags. My son, Connor, and I, both sleepy and sad, waved goodbye in our pajamas as he drove away, shivering in the cold March air.