Last night, during a moment of ease, I looked around our living room while sitting in a comfortable recliner. I looked at a large bookcase that is filled to the brim with books; I gazed at the piano that my partner used to enjoy playing before she became chronically ill. There are some prints on the wall that we enjoy looking at and there are a few ceramic pieces that I made some twenty years ago which are scattered about the living room.
One day all of these will be cleared out and shipped off to the Salvation Army or Good Will or tossed in a big dumpster and hauled to the local dump. These possessions are all valuable to me now but will have no meaning at all once I'm gone. I mistakenly believe that they represent me in some way. They are not me; even this body is not me. It is a "rental"; all of it is on loan, belonging to nobody, in the end.
checkout time is noon
I turn in the key
and everything else