This post is taking AGES to write as I only have 9 fingers. Well, 9 operational fingers. One of them is out of action thanks to a ‘kitchen incident’.
Anyway, let me tell you the story of what happened last Sunday night, and importantly, what I’ve learned from the (somewhat stressful) experience.
As I walked through my (our) house for the last time, my footsteps echoed in the empty rooms. The blue floral curtains I loved were still hanging at the windows and the mirrored alcove that Norbert had built looked strangely bare in the corner of the lounge room.
Carefully I laid out all the keys on the kitchen bench, slowly removing the final key to the front door from my key chain and adding it to the number. With tears in my eyes and my head filled with visions of ‘what might have been’, I walked to the front door and closed it behind me for the very last time.
As I said goodbye to the house where Norbert and I had lived together until he died, I asked myself…”Any regrets?“