The camera shutter clicked noisily, echoing in the still house.  No one present to hear the sound. Well, no one but the photographer.  The photographer was excited at the prospect.  To everyone else, this mission was one of everyday banal.  Document the life beyond the change.  What does it mean to our things when we leave?  The photographer had become obsessed with the stuff of our lives before.  Before everything changed.  On this late September morning, the photographer entered the little white split level house at 5476 Island Dr.

A doorknob.  Not yet showing signs of decomposition.  How many had touched this?  How many had used this simple machine to escape from the cold, the rain, the humidity, the glare of the sun?  In the after, doorknobs were still in use.  But they didn't hold the promise of safety and belonging beyond like they once did.  Such a shame, thought the photographer.  This one was still shiny, almost like it was still being polished by human hands.

A chair.  How many hours were spent sitting enjoying the company of others or the company of the moving pictures on the screen?  Such a time when a few hours in front of the box was a perfectly acceptable way to spend an evening.  Now there is no time for relaxing.  There's always work to do.  Things to repair, things to make, things to watch for.  The photographer wanted to sink into the comfy arms of the chair and drift off to dreamland.  But there was only a few hours of light left.  The photographer had to move on.

The next room revealed another chair.  This one a brilliant orange.  The photographer remembered the time when everything was colorful.  Clothes, furniture, cars, people were all the colors of the rainbow.  Now the photographer was lucky to see a color this bright after the spring rains.  But those were few and far between.  The photographer sat at the foot of the chair and just stared until all the photographer could see was orange.  A color full of life.

A laundry basket.  What were these used for now?  Carrying things to and fro.  Much like the old use.  But the old use held clean and fragrant clothing.  All the dirt, sweat, and grime washed out.  A new start.

...

Now where were the new starts?  The promise and hope of something just around the corner?  The photographer couldn't find it in the settlements.  The photographer could find it in the lost things of a life in material.