Transitions

 A week ago this past Monday was my mom’s funeral. The next day we emptied out her apartment. A week ago today I went back into her apartment, cleaned it head to toe and turned over the keys to the caretaker.

I also disconnected her phone. After doing so, I naturally had to call back to her number from my cell phone to see what would happen. “The number you have reached has been disconnected.” I guess that’s the message I expected to hear, but I still didn’t like it.
By noon, I had everything out of Mom’s apartment except for the vacuum and a few cleaning supplies. I got to her door, propelling the vacuum back and forth, back and forth. Back and forth. Back. And. Forth.
“You are going to wear out that carpet,” the voice in my head told me. “It is clean enough.”
Back and forth.
“Chris,” there was that voice again. “You need to leave now.”
Back and forth.
“Get a grip. It’s just her apartment.”
Back and forth.
“Chris . . . “
All right already. I turned off the vacuum, unplugged it, rolled up the cord, took it out into the hallway, and pulled the locked door shut behind me.