My mother's house is empty. There's one telephone, one telephone book, a note pad, and pen, all in the living room. Everything else is gone. The rooms echo, the house is empty, and I'm bereft.
Life, however, goes on and so must I. The recommended painter hasn't returned a single one of my messages, so I'll find another tomorrow. I've got things to mail, yarn to order, projects to knit, and packing to start.
I hate being the grown-up.