Moving, in July: return what’s borrowed, assess what’s owned, and determine the precise measurements of the van that can, cost-effectively, contain the detritus of my life. Our life. My husband and I, newlyweds, now a unit, move back to the city and pale brick house of my childhood. As we pass Connecticut bucolia and the primary-color sprawl of the DC suburbs, I pop pretzel M&Ms, re-read The Odyssey, and cry during the closing scene – as much for our hero as for Penelope, who has spent Book after Book in various poses of inertia, calculating without action, taking stock.