I’m reading a book in which the heroine’s sister dies. It’s just a junky mystery novel and so far not even that good, but it’s depressing me. The death (murder) of the younger sister opens the book and the older sister is cast in the role of investigator as the police think it’s a suicide and she, of course, does not.
It’s the scenes of her going through her sister’s stuff that are getting to me. That and just going back and visiting the sister’s empty apartment. I’m glad I was not able to do that. I’m not sure how much that would have affected me given that I never saw him alive there. For me it was a place where I saw his things, not him. Still, I’m glad I didn’t (and don’t) have a specific place to go like that. I don’t think it would have been good for me and I don’t think I could have resisted going.
Given that Eric lived so far away from the rest of us, we only had the time we were there to go through the apartment and tag anything we wanted. The rest we instructed a lawyer to donate or junk depending on worth. In some ways I ended up with a lot of things that will probably never come out of my attic because I didn’t want to leave anything that I might someday want. In other ways it was easier to make the decision to leave things behind because I didn’t have to worry about the disposal. Although if I had unlimited storage space I might have taken it all.
My memories and photographs and his things. That’s all I have left now. It hardly seems possible.
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