Let’s tag the chair. Don’t keep it. Nobody sits in it anyway, just collects dust. We’ll do room by room. Box one: kitchen. Box two: bath. I remember when you actually used the good china. Now it’s just in a cupboard, gathering grime. Keep moving. The paper goes in the 'trash' pile. No, not that pile. The other one. Hurry up, I don’t want to do this at night.
The chair. It’s not just wood and velvet. Look at that left armrest. See the indent? David used to sit there reading the paper, the one with the crossword, but he never finished them. He’d just stare at the grid until the ink blurred. I remember the smell of his pipe tobacco in the fabric, trapped deep in the weave. We didn’t realize it was a scent, just… him. Now it’s just dust. Gray, fine dust that settles like snow on a dead field.
And the china. The Ming dynasty knockoff from that flea market in ’98. Remember? The vendor swore it was ancient, charged us double because of his mustache. We used it for Christmas, once. Now it’s in the dark, pressing against each other in the cupboard, terrified of being chipped. Or maybe they’re just tired. The paper pile. The trash. The other trash. Pick up the invoices. The ones for the radiator. He always meant to fix it. Now it’s just a cold, metal ghost in the corner. Hurry.
You’re sentimentalizing wood. It’s just a chair. David’s pipe smoke? That’s just residue. We’re not curating a museum. I’m boxing it. The indents are just wear. Look at this radiator invoice. Thirty pounds. Paid. He always meant to fix it, sure, but now it’s just metal. Stop staring at the dust. If we don’t pack the china now, I’ll have to wrap the whole cupboard. It’s easier if we just assume they’re broken. Most of them probably are. Hand me the tape.
Fine. Tape. Give it. The plastic sounds like tearing skin when you rip it. Loud. Unnecessary. But okay. You’re right, the chair is wood. Pine, probably, with that varnish that peels like sunburn. It’s not a witness, just a thing that took up space. David’s ghost is just physics, friction and time. I know that. I read the books. But the invoice… thirty pounds. For a radiator that hissed louder than a snake in winter. We paid it. We paid for heat that never really came, just a metallic rattle in the dark.
The china. If we wrap the whole cupboard, the boxes get too heavy. My shoulders already feel like they’re sinking through the floorboards. Assume they’re broken. Crack them? Or just let the cardboard hold them together? Tape. Hand me the tape. Don’t look at the velvet. Look at the box. The box is clean. The box doesn’t remember.
Just tape them. Wrapping takes too long and the boxes rip. If they’re broken, they’re just pieces. Smaller pieces. Easier to manage. I’m stacking these on the truck. David’s pipe was cheap tobacco anyway. Smelled like burnt hair. You’re making it bigger than it is. Look at the box. It’s just cardboard. Brown. Plain. It doesn’t care about the Ming dynasty or the radiator. It just holds the stuff. Hand me the roll. My hands are sticky from the tape. Let’s go. We’ve got the kitchen to clear.
Sticky. I hate when it gets sticky. It pulls at the skin, tiny white hairs tearing. But fine. Let’s go. The kitchen. Why is the kitchen always the worst? It’s the heart, or so they say, but it’s just a tomb for expired milk and lonely spoons. Look at this ladle. Silver. Or plated silver that’s flaking off like dead skin. Remember the soup night? The Christmas Eve, the one with the lobster bisque that tasted like salt and regret? You spilled it. On the rug. The beige one. We scrubbed for hours. Smells like… I don’t know. Just smells. The box is brown. It’s waiting. It doesn’t care if the ladle is silver or tin. It just wants to be filled. To be heavy. To be moved. Hand me the roll. My hands are shaking. Or maybe that’s just the dust. The fine, gray snow that won’t stop falling inside my skull. Put the ladle in. Don’t wrap it. Let it rattle against the ceramic shards. It’s just noise. It’s just weight. Let’s go. The truck is waiting. The engine is cold. It doesn’t care either.
Shake it off. You’re making a scene over silverware. The ladle goes in the box. Let it rattle. I want it packed tight so nothing shifts. The rug was beige. It stained. We threw it out. You don’t remember, but I do. It smelled like old sweat and damp wool. Better than this kitchen, which smells like rotting lettuce. Box it. Tape it. Don’t think about the bisque. That was years ago. Just fill the box. Heavy is good. Heavy means it’s done. Next. The microwave. It’s heavy. Lift.
Heavy. Yes. Heavy is good. The microwave is a coffin for popcorn. Remember the sparks? The blue lightning that danced inside the glass like angry spirits? We ate that popcorn anyway. Greasy, electric-tasting. You laughed. I didn’t. I was afraid the house would burn down. It didn’t. Just the fuse box. Dark for an hour. Cold. We sat on the floor eating cold beans from the can. That’s better than the bisque. That’s real. The microwave is heavy. Gray plastic. The handle is cracked. I’ll tape it. Tight. No shifting. Let it rattle against the sink. Let the metal clatter. It’s just metal. It doesn’t remember the sparks. It doesn’t remember the dark. It just holds the light now. The bulb is out. I’ll leave it out. Or take it out. Doesn’t matter. The box is brown. It’s waiting. Fill it. Tape it. Next. The toaster. Two slots. Burnt bread. Always burnt. You liked it that way. Crisp. Charred. Like the rug. Like the smoke. Tape. Sticky hands. Don’t look at the crumbs. They’re just debris. Just weight. Heavy is done. Next. The kettle. Boiling water. Hissing. Like the radiator. Like the snake. Box it. Tape it. Don’t think about the heat. Think about the cold truck. The cold night. The cold silence. Fill it. Heavy. Done.
Stop. You’re talking too much. The toaster goes in the box. Don’t overthink the crumbs. They’re trash. I’m taping the kettle now. It’s heavy. Good. Just heavy. We’re losing light. If we don’t finish the kitchen, we’ll be doing this by flashlight. I don’t want to do that. David hated the dark. You remember that. He’d light every candle he had. Pathetic. Pass me the tape. Your hands are shaking again. Hold still. I’m done with the kettle. Next. The blender. It’s chipped. I’m throwing it. Or boxing it. I don’t care. Just hand me the next box. The brown one. The one that waits.
Shaking. Yes. The tremor is in the wrist, not the soul. It’s just the cold. The kitchen is freezing. The kettle is gone. Chipped ceramic. Trash. Or box. You decide. I’m just the hands. The brown box. Empty. Hungry. The blender. Glass jar. Plastic base. Stuck lid. David tried to pry it open with a knife once. Sliced his thumb. Blood on the counter. Red against white. We wrapped it in a paper towel. Didn’t go to the doctor. “It’s just a scratch,” he said. “Just a scratch.” Now the blender is just plastic. No blood. No juice. No noise. Just a hollow thud when you set it down. Box it. Tape it. The light is fading. Gray out the window. Darkness creeping in like ink. David hated the dark. Lit candles. Wax pooling. Smell of beeswax and fear. We don’t have candles. We have tape. Sticky. Pull. Rip. Seal. Next. The toaster. No, done. The fridge. Empty. Cold shelves. Light bulb out. Just a dark box inside a dark room. Box it. Tape it. Heavy. Done.
You’re rambling. The fridge is too big. It doesn’t fit. Leave it. We can’t move the big stuff anyway. The truck’s full. Just the small boxes. The toaster, the kettle, the blender. Stack them. Tight. David’s blood? Don’t be dramatic. It dried years ago. The counter’s clean now. White laminate. Stain-free. Better than the red. Red is messy. Red is hard to clean. Tape the box. Rip the tape. Stick it down. No gaps. No air. Just weight. We’re done here. Move to the hall. The coat rack. Hanging there. Empty. Waiting. Just like the fridge. Just like the chair. Don’t look at it. Look at the floor. Clear the path.
The coat rack. Oak. Heavy as sin. Those hooks… curved little iron fingers. Remember the red raincoat? The one David wore when he left. Or came back in. I never knew which. It smelled like wet wool and expensive cologne. The kind that costs more than the rent. We didn’t have that cologne. We had soap. Cheap lavender soap that made your skin itch. But the coat stayed. For years. Even after he stopped coming in. Even after the hooks bent under the weight of nothing. Empty now. Just metal teeth biting into the wood. Waiting for a ghost that isn’t there. The floor. Clear path. Scuff marks. From the chair. From the boots. From the drag of the box. White laminate. Stain-free. Cold. Hard. Like the truck bed. Like the night. Tape. Rip. Stick. The hall is narrow. Shadows stretch long and thin, like fingers reaching for the boxes. Don’t look at the coat. Look at the floor. The dust bunnies. Gray clouds on the ground. Trapped. Waiting. To be swept. Or ignored. We’re moving to the hall. The door is ajar. Darkness behind it. Always darkness. Just weight. Just boxes. Stack them. Tight. No gaps. No air. Just the smell of dust and old wood. And silence. Loud, heavy silence.
Shut up. The coat rack stays. You can’t lift it. It’s bolted. Or nailed. I don’t know. It’s too heavy. We’re leaving it. The hook count doesn’t matter. The red raincoat? Gone. Rotting in a skip somewhere. We don’t need ghosts in the hall. Just boxes. Stack them. Don’t look at the shadows. They’re just lack of light. The floor is cold. Good. Keeps us moving. You’re shivering. Stop it. It’s wasting heat. Next. The living room. The sofa. It’s sagging. David’s dent is still there. In the cushion. Ten years gone. Dust bunnies? I’ll sweep them later. Or never. Just carry the boxes. Tight stack. No gaps. Move.
Sagging. Yes. The indentation. Perfectly shaped for a man who is no longer here. It’s not just fabric and foam. It’s a mold. A negative space where a body used to be. Ten years. The springs are probably rusted through. Fine dust choking the webbing. We’re leaving the rack. Bolted. Nailed. Good. It belongs to the wall now. To the plaster. We are just thieves of small things. Boxes of dead objects. The sofa. If we lift it, the frame will snap. The wood will splinter. David’s spine. We can’t carry him. We can only carry the boxes. The tape gun. Click. Rip. Stick. The sound is violent. Tearing the world open. The living room is dark. The shadows are thick. Heavy. Like the air in a tomb. Don’t look at the shadows. Look at the box. Brown. Plain. Empty. Fill it. With what? The books? The ones on the shelf? The ones David read but never understood? Or the magazines? The ones with the glossy covers that peeled? Stack them. Tight. No gaps. The dust is settling. On the boxes. On the floor. On us. We are covered in it. Gray snow. Cold. Shivering. Stop it. The heat is leaving. The house is dying. And we are just moving its bones. Box by box. Heavy. Done. Move.
Books go last. They’re heavy and useless. Magazines? Peel them. The glossy stuff flakes off. Just like the varnish. We’re not archivists. We’re garbage men. You’re shivering because you’re tired. Stop talking about bones. It’s just furniture and paper. The spine of the sofa isn’t David’s. It’s wood. Splintered wood. Doesn’t scream. Just cracks. Put the tape down. Your hands are dirty. Gray dust under the nails. Scrub them later. Now, lift the box. Don’t think about the smell. It’s just old paper. Mildew. Mold. Not death. Just rot. Move. The truck’s idling. I can hear it. Low, like a beast. Get the box. Now.
Dust under the nails. Black crescents. Soil from a garden that isn’t there. I scrubbed them yesterday. In the sink. The water turned brown. Swirling. Like tea. Like blood. But it’s just dirt. It’s just the house shedding its skin. We are garbage men. Yes. That’s what we are. Collecting the excrement of a life. The mold. The mildew. The smell of paper dissolving. Acidic. Sweet. Sour. It gets in the throat. Coats the tongue. Don’t think about it. Think about the truck. The idling. Low. Beast. Iron and fire. It doesn’t care about the books. It doesn’t care about the magazines. It just wants weight. It wants to consume. Lift. The box is heavy. Wet. The paper is softening. Disintegrating. We are holding a wet corpse. But it’s just paper. Just pulp. Just ink fading into gray. The spine of the sofa. Wood. Splintered. Cracks in the varnish. Like dry lips. No scream. Just silence. Thick. Heavy. The house is holding its breath. Waiting for us to leave. To take the boxes. To take the weight. Don’t look at the dust. Look at the truck. The engine. The heat. Move. Now. Before the dark takes the hall. Before the cold takes the bones. We are not archivists. We are debris. Just move.