That is not going to be possible in Bill’s bedroom. There is now just a bare bed. All the accoutrements of Bill’s life—his rug, slippers, bedspread, wooden towel rail, his piles of reference books, 1970s Teasmade, and old magazines all gone, along with the rest of the furniture. Lila stands in the doorway and folds her arms firmly around her middle, gazing at the many layers of absence in the room. This is life at this age, she muses, a million goodbyes, and you never know which are the final ones. You just absorb them, like little shocks, trusting with each one that you’ll be able to keep
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