The final act

Just after lunch, I received a call to say the family home has been sold.

This is a technical matter, and is called completion.

It now is a matter of time before the estate is closed and the net value wings it was to our bank account. My solicitor's secretary infomred me that the bill was being prepared and was expecting me to to give it my urgent attention when it is sent.

So, that is it.

My parents were married in September 1964, purchasing the house off the drawing board for £2,500. It took the full twenty five years to pay off, though in reality it could have been done at any point in the last 5 years, with monthly repayments of £20.00.

Unbeknown to my parents, their house was used by the builders of the street as their store, and mixed batches of concrete on the living room floor, meaning Mum had to scrub the floorboards for days before the carpet was eventually laid.

Money was tight, the mortgage took up more than a quarter of the monthly money incoming, but they bought things to fill their home.

A four foot-long radiogram to play their 78s on and to listen to Radio Hilversum on. That lasted until 1979.

Dad installed the gas fire towards the end of the 60s, without telling Mum has was going to do it, and there was her buying half a pound of chestnuts to roast on the hearth. Cooked in an electric oven isn't the same, I was told.

I could write more, but what's the point? The years fly by, fewer people remember, and the less it matters.

On the street, there were 8 houses. Mum's passing means that only Janet at #8 is the last of the original residents. My friend, Dougie, has Mum still owns #3, although she hasn't lived in it for a decade, won't let him sell it. And Mum was the 3rd to last.

I won't see inside of it again, last time was back in November when we went for the internment of her ashes.

And that is it.

Another chapter closes.

I feel nothing. No sadness, no joy. Nothing. Just closure.