Recently, I visited the home of someone who has died. Recently.
It was a strange experience. Everything is there as it used to be, waiting to be used in the everyday life that has ceased to be. All the things that made up a life. Even the dust in the corners. Unmoving. Waiting. Silent reminders of something that won't return any time soon.
Being a home out in the countryside where few people roam and even angels fear to tread, the sense of desolation made itself abundantly clear.
"Nothing happens here. Nothing."
There is a whole host of social processes that occur when one is in someone else's home. They don't even have to be around - the sense of the place being Somebody's Place is prevalent through all of the things, nooks and crannies. There is always the possibility of them walking in at any moment.
Until there isn't.
There is a saying that life goes on. It does. It very much does.
And there's a lot to the going on.
Things have to be sorted. Organized. Given to the right people, donated to the right places. Put into new places and new uses, now that the old places are out of use.
Leaving a dead place is hard. You know it will be exactly the same as when you left it. It will remain so until you come back.
That's the hard part. The hardest part.
It is a hard thing to remember to turn off the light as one leaves. They will remain off. Along with everything else. Unused.