The house seemed so small. Yet here in my memory as a child so very long ago it was always huge. I walk through the rooms . Familiar as they always were.
I can almost hear your voice Calling me to the table. Or to get ready for bed.
The packing had almost finished Everything in boxes that would never be opened again.
In your old kitchen I pack the dinnerware that had had carried our sustenance until I was an adult. Piece by piece I carefully place them in the box.
Then I find your tea cup The one you used faithfully each day of your life. It still had a single tea leaf Dried and on the rim. Where your lips had been.
That is when the grief hit me as it had never done before.