I was overwhelmed with the loneliness of the room. Just days before I had been in this place, packing my grandmother’s belongings, in preparation for the Salvation Army crew. Now a devastatingly different atmosphere greeted me. The air no longer carried my grandmother’s scent. Now just dust and emptiness.
Unknowingly, the previous group who had been here had violated this space, taking with them not only the belongings of the deceased, but also bits and pieces of her memory. Looking around I tried to remember what it was like before, but I couldn’t. Much like a new hair cut, the prior feeling was hard to recall.
Turning around, I spotted the only thing left in the room. There were two glass jugs sitting in a corner of the room, just under the reflection from the window on the other wall. The emptiness of the room was magnified by this reflection, as normally a couch or chair would interrupt the light; now it was a perfect reflection of the window, outlined by shadows from the panes. Of course, this was the only source of light in the room; all of her lamps with their cheery light were gone as well.
I stared at the two jugs for a bit longer, hoping to gain something from them, I suppose. Perhaps they have some memory bottled up inside of them that I’d forgotten about. No memories. Now this would be the first new memory in my grandmother’s apartment. The first of many, I was sure. My daughter, now eight years old, was always getting into some sort of mischief, so I figured that she would contribute greatly.
I began to walk about the empty living space, trying to imagine where I would put things. My thoughts kept mirroring my grandmother’s, knowing that she would still be here; hot wanting to disappoint her. Of course, I would most likely put the things that I had inherited back where they were to begin with. It would make everyone feel more at home.
As I turned to leave I thought, “Yes, the jugs will stay right where they’re at.”
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