There is something inherently disturbing about cleaning out a dead person's things from a closet. Being of a quiet and broody nature myself, my family was surprised when I resolutely gathered up my odds and ends and moved into the then recently empty room previously inhabited by my now deceased aunt. At the time, I was indeed very affected by her death, since all I could think about was the many, many arguments we'd had over the years, followed by days of not talking and how I would always make a face when she was to give me rides anywhere. In retrospect, had I known she would be gone soon, would I have treated her differently? I pored over her things, the endless, endless clutter and wondered if I would still have slammed the door as hard or complained as vociferously, had I known?

I stumbled across old photos. One of me, one of my siblings, and several dozen of my cousins, who didn't even live in the same city.

I found old poems she'd put up on the inside of her closet door, each ringing of bitterness and cynicism. A naive little child has scrawled at the bottom (uncomprehendingly) "V. V. V. V. Good!". A distant memory reminds me that the naive child was myself, fond of reading anything in front of my face, and equally fond of comprehending nothing of reality or motives.

I found pens by the score. Reciepts, memories of each major purchase. Keychains, little lego toys that I thought were lost years ago. Shampoo bottles, perfumes, various knick knacks. All of this was important to a living, breathing person not too long ago and is now being tossed out as rubbish by another to make room for life.

Cleaning out the remnants of a life that was lived is disturbing, like an autopsy of the mind, of memories, while the owner is unable to protest.