“Do you even hear yourself right now?” I asked. Lydia entered the room then along with one of the officers and the locksmith.
I moved from room to room without performing any outrage, just seeing what had been done. The kitchen still had the same windows overlooking the dunes, but the copper pot rack was missing.
The blue striped dish towels were gone, and the small brass bell by the back door had been removed. The pantry door stood open and I saw that the top shelf had been reorganized by someone who did not understand sentiment.
My mother’s jars of hand labeled herbs had vanished from their spot. I had left them there on purpose because sometimes grief needs physical objects to hold onto.
I put a hand on the pantry frame to steady myself. “Audrey, are you alright?” Lydia asked from the doorway.
“I am fine,” I lied, even though it was close enough for the moment. There were more losses upstairs as I checked my mother’s bedroom.
It had been turned into a sitting room according to a brochure from a furniture store. The quilt my grandmother stitched by hand was gone, along with the reading chair by the window.