Looking around the empty house that belonged to my mom.  Memories scream in my mind.

I see the bedroom she died in.  The bed was 40 years old, it was what she and my father slept in all these years.  She looked frail and alone, on her side of the bed still.

Now I’m in charge of selling her house.  It’s empty except for an office rolly chair that I am taking with me, the rest is gone, just like my mom.

All I’m left with is memories.  Isn’t that with everything till we become a memory?