How disturbing it is to be walking amongst the detritus of someone’s life,

A pair of slippers by the bed,

still side by side.

Two teacups in the cupboard,

chipped in places that tell stories

only they knew.

Objects that meant so much to them,

A host of photos each framed with love

the garden gloves stiff with soil and time,

the letters folded, softened with touch

are now just things.

Unloved and unwanted,

except by memory.

Their life was built quietly,

in shared rituals,

the morning cup of tea,

an afternoon walk,

hands finding each other in sleep.

Even the worn armchairs lean toward one another,

like they forgot how to sit alone.

Now I remove their world piece by piece,

unsure whether to keep or let go.

His watch, her necklace

a cine camera whose grip worn smooth

by years of recording family events,

I find their names written in margins,

Notes in cookbooks and on calendars,

their handwriting still embracing

across the years.

How do you measure a life like this?

not by the value of things left behind,

but by the spaces between them.

The quiet they once filled with laughter,

listening to the football results on Saturday afternoon,

with the long language of togetherness,

I carry out their belongings gently,

as if the air itself might bruise them.

And in the stillness,

I swear I feel them,

not gone,

just shifted.

Not discarded,

but distilled into memory.

And I gently whisper to the dust in the fading light:

You were loved.

You were known.

You are not forgotten.