We Cleaned Out Your Office

Mom and I went to your office in December. Nobody asked us to clean out your office. The pandemic is still happening and your colleagues make rare appearances at 7 Times Square South. I wonder if you would have gone to the office. Your leg was really hurting in early 2020 so you may have spared yourself the commute, especially without a Ranger game or Broadway show to cap off the day. But you might have enjoyed the peace and quiet of your beautiful corner office.

Heck, if you were alive, I would go to your office if they let me! We would work independently all morning. I would grab lunch and we would eat at your desk, me sitting across from you. You grabbing the manila folders that you used as our placemats always. We would talk about our projects. You would offer me a diet coke. I would accept.

The primary reason we went to your office was to collect your things and to cross another post death to-do off the list. As I’ve said before Phil, you led a big life so you left quite a bit behind. There are still so many open threads to close. But going to your office was one that I felt would give me an opportunity to connect with you.

I don’t know what I thought I would find in your office. Maybe I would find something you left behind, that I could cling to. Maybe I would find a note you wrote. Maybe I would find a secret.

Well, Phil, we didn’t find a whole lot. There was still milk in your fridge. GROSS. We found a half a bag of Cheerios. They were stale. We found so many pens, markers, post-its and umbrellas. I took all of them. And of course, we found your books, your cds, your pictures, your trophies and your plaques. But we knew all of that was there.

I thought I would find comfort in your things. I thought I would feel crippling sadness to be in your office without you. But your friend Dyan popped by and we had so much fun shooting the shit.

So I wasn’t sad to see your stuff Dad. And I wasn’t sad you weren’t there, because I didn’t expect you to be there. I was sad when we took the elevator down to leave because I would never go visit you at your office ever again. I’ve visited you at your offices so much since I was a kid. I sold girl scout cookies door to door. I worked out of a conference room one summer. I hosted wine tastings for your colleagues. I had so many opportunities to get to be part of your work life.

In many ways, that part of your life didn’t end when you died. Your legacy will live on at your firm. Your role as historian and party planner will be brought into the future. Your ideas will come through other people. I know your presence is still very much there. I just have no reason to go visit that presence at 7 Times Square.

Now, I sit at my home desk, with my P.R. Hoffman name plate that I swapped from your desk. I write my book using one of your blue markers. I mark up my cookbook with your post-its. And I think of you. But I’ll miss visiting you at work. Every time I walk or bike by your office, I wave and scream HI DAD! You’ll always be there in my mind.