My home is filled with things that don't belong to me, that I didn't ask for, I don't really want. My wife's stuff haunts me, gently and sometimes soothingly, but I didn't ask for it.
My bookshelf is filled with books I've never read, I remember her reading, but I probably never will read myself. My wardrobe is half-filled with clothes I can't wear. The corner of the sitting room is occupied by a piano I can't play, and piles of music books that came alive to her, but I can only flick through in ignorant curiosity. Her coat is still on it's peg, hanging unworn and unwearable.
These are not things I wanted, I wanted her voice telling me about the things she's read, I wanted the sound of her hands on the piano keys, I wanted her coat hanging damp from a walk together. How can so much stuff remain, and yet these things be so irreparably gone?
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