In a couple of weeks, my grandmother and step-grandfather will move out of their home and into a care facility. My grandma has lived in that home for forty years, and in the house next-door , where my parents live and where I grew up, for the eighteen years previous to that. It was a strange, uncomfortable experience walking through her home the other day, watching the cuckoo clock come off the wall, vases and trinkets come down from the shelves, and seeing the depressions in the carpet where furniture had been resting for decades. I can imagine her emotions as she tries to divide up the things she can't bring along, things she's been collecting all her life. I'm surprised at the intensity of my own emotions walking through her half-empty house, and overwhelmed by a flood of memories that will perhaps slip away when the constellation of her house, the things in her house, her garden, and her presence there, are no longer there.
Sometimes I wish hair didn't have to turn grey too.