And then I stood for the last time in that room.
The key was in my hand. I held my ground,
and listened to the quiet that was like a sound,
and saw how the long sun of winter afternoon
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0X1M-mtSFqJ1jyeqisk4ghNX2hU97VswQhLY5ZiK5VqPigu0_ce19YbwGFH7XZxHOX3YBY1cnTwWBYiMpTg-fUiP5gXXGg06_OTN74bIO4vXy49hM0_mxgH5prdn3jsvF9OEutHs-a24/s200/emptyroom.jpg)
the grain in the blond wood. (All that they owned
was once contained here.) At the window moaned
a splinter of wind. I would be going soon.
I would be going soon; but first I stood,
hearing the years turn in that emptied place
whose fullness echoed. Whose familiar smell,
of a tranquil life, lived simply, clung like a mood
or a long-loved melody there. A lingering grace.
Then I locked up, and rang the janitor's bell.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTXODpylAeHYEjuZ0qDJFXi6AT5e5i3XxJes2xbSWb_DEBmOuIfhQbpKMZSCucEtLjB9KdkQXIxNuDqiSmXAbZMNpKZ-kQkuU6k2k6RFNc7R8YG8YXe5TOfP7xmOMgJiDPIvwtY0ebXMk/s200/c-sarah.jpg)
Photograph credit: Unknown.
The words, the illustration recall the flood of emotion I felt when leaving our emptied home to move to a retirement community.
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