Finding Behavioral Residue

Everything is the same, yet nothing is the same. By appearances it felt like home, but the heart of it is missing. The light from the sun floods in, in search of it, but unable to find it, so light is everywhere. It seems extra bright as if trying to compensate for the loss even it knows exists. Light touches Everything in the office. The settled dust sparkles as glitter giving it a heavenly feel. Maybe it once was.

The office contained stacks , weirdly, even the stacks contained stacks. Piles as signs of a life. The work of a professional homemaker. An individual now considered part of a dying generation. Each pile organized by some system of filing be it color, alphabetical, date, etc. To the left of the door is an organized pile. To the right of the door is an organized pile. Straight ahead are two organized piles politely waiting to be revisited and reconsumed by the master crafter. A room now untouched and unaware of how abandoned it has become over night. How in jeopardy it's place, in the office, in the large home, was becoming. For the time being, allowed to exist as is as an embodiment of the life of our loved one. However, also a constant painful reminder of how empty a room can feel even when bursting at the seams with stuff.

The closet had already discovered. Although, the the carpeting of dust on shelves in there, told of an already visible neglect that should of hinted at what was coming. Gone were the days of immaculate 'Better Homes and Gardens' appearances. Appearances of youth. They had disappeared slowly, even un-noticeably. Only had it become assumed when the inhabitant had been unable to move around freely and without pain. By then, no one found the need to point out the obvious and bring it up. The rest of us choosing to watch and pretend it carried on as usual.  Unquestioning how things usually got done and assuming it would magically do so, as always.

Each office project started, but unfinished. Each carried to an impressive stopping point where the viewer could easily see the desired outcome. The projected final completed state, just a formality,  but almost already existing. Each project needing just a few hours to finish. A photo album for our family being one such project. The last five pages containing photos not yet stuck down, but tentatively positioned on each page. How apropos a remedy for us after her passing.

The closet was now cleaned out except for a couple items, proving she was once there. The other items, now evenly dispersed, but some how hung in a way where each hanger seemed to carry a weight of loneliness as if needing a good shake out and hug after what had transpired. As if it missed all the hats it use to wear and the dresses it adorned. Time would eventually fill the space.

The office could not so quickly be dismantled. Getting through the doorway was hard enough. A vision of her standing in the doorway or sitting in her chair kept one's mind searching and hopeful that this could still be expected. It was not. It was not. My mind had to keep reminding my soul to be rational.

The only new pile that existed now, was a pile of Kleenex. Each Kleenex in the pile found from a pocket contained from the clothes and bags once found in her closet. Gifts to us. How did she know we'd need all those too? How did she always know what was needed?





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