When someone has died

in the hospital,

the rucksack sits at home

refusing to take in the facts,

expecting soon to be picked up

in passing

en route out to the bike

like every work day

For a time,

inside the locked apartment,

the deceased stays alive in all things

still owning their purposes,

their household commissions;

the bed expecting

to have its pillows arranged,

the alarm clock eagerly waiting to be turned off,

the lamp, according to time of day,

expecting to be either turned on or off

It is painful

to enter and interrupt all objects

in their preparedness;

to belittle them,

take them off duty

and see them transform into property left,

but only then is the deceased properly dead,

himself become a thing amongst things,

an object

for ceremonial sorrow

and pain

- but for as long as no one sticks the key

into the front door

and enters the kingdom of things,

that up to that moment revels in its naturalness

around a living person,

everything is as it should

among kettles, coffee cups, boiler,

humming fridge and freezer,

the pantry's richness of cereals and grains,

wardrobes stuffed with clothes

and the living room's CD-player

and the TV on standby

...until the door opens...