It suddenly seems empty

Pop’s house is going to be auctioned on the 27th of October. It’s almost empty, save for a few pieces of furniture that will eventually be donated to a charity, and a few bits and pieces that we are yet to take. For the past two weeks Dad and my aunt have been down there organising box upon box of “stuff”, deciding which “stuff” to keep (and who should keep it), which “stuff” to throw out, which “stuff” to sell, which “stuff” to donate.

Something has left my life,
And I don’t know where it went to.
Somebody caused me strife,
And it's not what I was seeking.

Pop was a hoarder. His home was always full of things, quirky little oddments that made it unique, things that made it his. But slowly, slowly, we’ve dismantled a home, with its 60-odd years of history, leaving an empty house, a shell of its former glory ready to be sold and carved up. I understand that this is how things work, and that ultimately the money my Dad inherits will benefit me, but that doesn’t make it any easier. I went down on Wednesday and Thursday afternoon this week, after uni, to help out. Though I knew perfectly well what was happening, and what had been happening since my last visit (which was well before the drug debacle), still I wasn’t prepared for such an empty house—a home no longer. The joy and warmth had gone, replaced by a cold austerity that was not Pop at all. It felt so strange. I felt his absence so keenly on Wednesday I had to excuse myself and sit for a moment to think and try to process what I was seeing and feeling.

Say a prayer for me,
Help me to feel the strength I need.
My identity, has it been taken?
Is my heart breakin’ on me?

The back room: once the hub of the house with its formica breakfast table, Pop’s armchair and tape player for his recorded book, a pile of newspapers (already read but not ready to be thrown out yet). Now it’s empty. All that remains is an end table with a vase of flowers. It doesn’t even smell like Pop’s place anymore.

The kitchen: once a room of warmth and delicious smells, cupboards full of plates, utensils, Tupperware; the benches covered in jars of coffee, tea and sugar—ready for afternoon tea or Pop’s night-time cocoa. The room held the sun’s heat well into the night, making it the warmest in the house. Now it’s empty. The cupboards are bare, the drawers barren, the tea long since packed away.

Pop’s bedroom: once full of “stuff” ranging from old engineering and mechanics magazines to his collection of maps, a wardrobe full of clothes, a dresser full of his most prized possessions and other assorted miscellanea—war memorabilia from his service in the RAAF in WW2, old coins, spark plugs, double adapters and every telephone the house had ever had. Now it’s empty. All that remains is his bed and bedside light, mounted on the wall above it.

Pop’s workshop: once full of dazzling machinery, two metal cabinets full of assorted chuck keys, drill bits, screw drivers, imperial callipers, belt sanders, scraps of metal and the occasional porno shoved in the back. Now it’s empty. Totally empty. There’s nothing left.

All my plans fell through my hands,
They fell through my hands on me.
All my dreams it suddenly seems,
It suddenly seems
Empty.