A space for care

I remember the moment: coming back to my father’s house a day or so after his death and being struck by the sensation that each of his belongings was somehow changed, distorted, alien. It was like walking into the wrong hotel room by mistake or realising your home has been burgled. Even though nothing had moved even an inch, everything was irrevocably out of place.

Slippers – radio – bedside lamp – toilet rolls – sports coat – sofa cushion – doormat – mirror – wedding album – street directory – phone bill – fruit bowl. It was as if each of these things, from the sublime to the trivial, had been held suspended in a spider’s web of meaning and utility with my father at the centre. With him gone the central hub of this web had been torn away, every thread