October 26, 2015
They just carried off the bed her beloved died in, one of the last pieces to go. Only a fan, a microwave, an iron, and some stuff in the fridge left, and it will be gone by tonight. Unlike a "regular" move, where you leave when your stuff does, this one was a slow, painful witnessing of disappearing artifacts, echoes intensifying with each departure. I hover and help, make coffee in the morning and chamomile tea at night, handle the giveaways, hug her when she weeps. Symbolically, the front doorhandle breaks at the last minute and she can't get out.