A box a day, the packing continues.
A little more slowly every day as I grind to halt, waiting for certainty that this is really happening.
A painting taken away by someone who recognises its landscape.
Family photographs retrieved by The Family.
Someone else's love letters gathered together to await a forwarding address.
C'est très douloureux.
It is hardest in the middle of the night, with nothing to hear but the scuttling of mice, the rustling of leaves, the wind, an owl.
I do not wait well.
I reach out in the darkness and there is nobody there.
An unwanted email sent into the abyss.
So sorry, I should not have done that.
In my new home there will be music.
Meanwhile, I wait, pianissimo.