This house of ours is in mourning. The vacuum cleaner, which for years quietly played along with my mom, cleaning what was already clean, is in mourning. The furniture, paintings, plants and carpets are in mourning. Her toothbrush, which is still there where she left it, is in mourning, along with the sweater on the armchair in her room. The dust, on the other hand, seems less perturbed, able now to at least enjoy a few days on the surfaces of our home, while - I might be mistaken - but I thought I heard a bit of sobbing from the well-ironed and neatly arranged dust rags. They know their destiny; tragically for them, there will be no one to iron them anymore. The elevator and the washing machine are in mourning; the purple scarf she wore when she sat on the couch, full of holes from her cigarettes, is also desperate. The four of us, her daughters, are in mourning. We lost much more than our mother. We lost the rock on which our family was built. We lost her comforting...
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