I didn’t know you.

I don’t remember seeing you.

But I walked past your house every day.

Two bins stood in your drive, those ones for smaller-sized households.

For some time, they hadn’t moved.

 

From my upstairs window

I saw the two large vans pull up. 

One white, enclosed, for transporting items worth protecting from the elements.

The other, an open cage, for those things destined only for a final journey

To the dump.

 

Three men got out.

They came and went, in and out of your front door.

Again and again.

Carrying. Pushing. Pulling.

Selecting. Either hoisting in or tossing out.

Your pictures. Your mirror. Your chests of drawers.

Your chairs. Your shelves. Your boxes.

Stacks of your everyday household items.

Piles of your bedding. Armfuls of your clothes.

 

No sign of you.

Or anyone else.

Relatives. Friends. Carers.

Your nominated Power of Attorney (did you even have one?).

 

Your whole life dissected,

Extracted from the house that had been your home.

Unwitnessed.

Unmourned?

 

Were you childless like me?

Did you have no other family, as I may not have when my time comes?

Were there no friends who might want to salvage some memento?

No one to acknowledge you and the traces you left from your time on this earth?

 

Two whole days later, there was no more to be done.

The men and their vans drove away.

And with them, the last tangible vestiges of your life

Either to be repurposed

Or destroyed.

 

A few doors down, my house is bursting with possessions I treasure.

A chill runs through my heart.

Will anyone care?

Anonymous