After today, the LA house I lived in for seven years won't be home to anyone I know any more. My dogs Cassie and Orion grew up there, and Orion spent his final days in the sunny back room, trying and failing to stand up.
It's where the tiny box that used to contain the ashes of Lily is buried, with a memorial poem, underneath a bed of nodding yellow lilies, and it's where I grew what is now a thicket of beautiful, fragrant David Austin roses, and rosemary, and lavender.
I have no idea what will happen to the leopard-print chaise, or the wall sculpture cast from a woman's torso, or the enormous framed Toulouse-Lautrec poster of Aristide Bruant that so strongly resembled the departing inhabitant, whom I wish well during an annus horribilis.
I do know that several boxes of things I left behind will arrive at my door sometime soon, suitable for browsing through a portion of my life. The book is still open, but that chapter is now closed.