*****

The house was empty. Of course it was empty.

It was empty every day, except for when his small frail shape wandered listlessly from room to room.

Empty. Yet full, for she was in every room.

She smiled at him, vibrant with life and beauty, from photos, large and small – photos lining walls, filling shelves, decorating nooks and crannies. Photos with him, with their two sons, photos of the whole family enjoying special time together, creating memories to be cherished.

He saw the quilts, cushions and throws she’d made with love and care - every room had her special touch, and expressed her artistic talent. He'd always admired her design skills as she’d planned and decorated each room.

The boxes of cards were still on her craft table – three-dimensional birthday and Christmas cards for her loved ones, each handmade with love and thoughtful care. So were the special pens she used for her calligraphy, and the narrow silk and velvet ribbons and fine lace with which she trimmed her cards. He could still see her hands creating, crafting.

The large house was full of her life, yet hollow, like him. Loneliness was bitter.

His sons? Too busy to realise how empty his life was! Neither Tom nor Ed lived close. Ed had moved out of the area to follow a career advancement. Unthinking.

Too busy even to phone him. What was the purpose anyway? He had no news to share, nothing to talk about. Their lives were busy with careers, children, responsibilities ... and their lives no longer included him.

What a contrast, he reflected. His empty life devoid of purpose; their lives full to overflowing, as his used to be. He’d been a successful wealthy businessman himself, but family was everything. His life had had meaning and fulfilment, but definitely no longer. What was the point of growing old alone?

Where were their friends? She’d been the life of the party; she lit up every room. He was shy and quiet. He’d spent so much time caring for her prior to her death that his few close friends had dropped off – he was never available to catch up. Her many friends did not know how to console this quiet withdrawn man – and had soon stopped calling.

How does one start again? An empty house, empty life, empty heart. He felt like an empty shell.

Memories were now neither beautiful nor cherished. They were like daggers, piercing his heart. Every day he had to go out for a while, overcome by her presence and by her absence. He wandered through the shopping centres, sat on park benches, filled the lonely hours until he had to return to the space which he called his home.

*****

Months later.

“When did you last see your father?” asked the detective. Tom could not remember. At least two or three months. He was asked to check his calendar. Four months.
“He’s been reported as a missing person by his neighbour,” the detective continued. “She hadn’t seen him for a few days, and he didn’t answer when she knocked on the door. We gained entry – but the house is indeed empty and there are no clues as to his whereabouts. Seems he’s been gone a while.”

Tom was shocked. So was his brother Ed. Ed also had not seen him for several months. Detectives were trying to trace his movements, but so far without success. He seemed to have just vanished.

*****

Months later.

“We think we have located your father’s body,” the detective phoned Tom and Ed. “We do not believe there was foul play. It seems he caught a train to Pine Valley Station, and from there walked into the nearby National Park. He may have got lost, or he may have chosen to simply lie down and die. His remains were found by a group of young people, not far from a hiking track.”

*****

Tom and Ed organised a small memorial service and gave their father a “suitable” burial. His headstone included the sad words, “Died from a broken heart.”

They then returned to the family home, and, not being sentimental, discarded all the furnishings and photos, and sold the house.

What is the value of a house which is not a home?

More importantly, what is the value of a life?

*****