These are the places where people die. This is where my mother spent her last three years on earth. Fortunately, after a while, she had no idea that she was there. A janitor walked us through a vast attic where the possessions of dead patients were stored. Spinet pianos in perfect tune.
Objects acquire a terrible weight when they are no longer attached to people.
We saved a photograph and a blanket. The rest we signed away to charity. Back in the sunlit parking lot, I buried my face in my father's neck. It all went kind of like that. The family accountant apologized for crying.