His table was just the way he’d have liked to see it. Fresh flowers were arranged for every morning, the calendar was updated regularly and the furniture was dusted carefully.
He defined that space. One just had to be physically present there to be able to feel his commanding presence. The chair placed at an angle, the telephone on his left, his stationery on the right, the computer he never got familiar with, the paperweights that bore the brunt of his fidgety fingers, were all part of his persona. He was a perfectionist and his space bore evidence of that perfection.
I often walked by that room, mentally bracing myself for some sort of change. But there never was any. They had chosen to leave his memories intact.
I don’t know how I felt about it. Sad or maybe just relieved.