The house echoes with silence. The air is dead, layered thick with dust. Your clothes hang in the wardrobe where a year ago you had left them, expecting to select and choose from among them for more years of your life. Now they are thick furred in dust, still, unmoving. They have lost their scent of you, as your bed has lost its shape of you. Nothing living moves in this house now, but me, wandering the halls of my memory.
These things that surround me are but the husks of your life. Treasures that only you could value, items which only had meaning to you. I accidentally knock a box and a cascade of slippery paper memories falls in kaleidoscopic colour to the floor and I stop, mesmerised by a life I didn't know, immortalised by photographs I didn't take. I run my fingers across your image, remembering the feel of your skin beneath them when once I hugged you and kissed your wrinkled cheek... When that part of your life that was also mine still was. All these memories on the floor are not mine, they belong to the life you once shone brightly in living. I pack them and put them back in the pile.
All these things that made up your life. And you gone from them.
I have you still in my heart. I see glimpses of you in my son, in the butterflies that swarm me as I sit on the verandah in the cool evening air and watch the sun set. I hear you in the bright voices of children, the sounds of the living world around me, the echo of a long forgotten message left... unheard on my phone until now. I remember you in echoes of words spoken, of love given, of small objects scattered around my home that for me now, give meaning to my life.
I remember you with happiness and love. Gone forever your body but your gentle, laughing spirit lives on.
And when I die, all these things that make up my life will also be discarded as I discard my body and return to the stars.
All is as it should be.