The hermitage is empty. Even the ghosts have left. They left without saying a word. We are alone. The cat is on the bed. She contemplates the moment and appears to come to a conclusion.
The end result being that your mind, your brain, all your memories and awareness and warmth and generosity were obliterated in one fell swoop of death.
I was so depressed I was delusional, looking for ghosts in crawlspaces, imagining voices of the dead in my head.
You try to get through the death of your wife. You got through the death of two brothers and your son. Why is it so hard to get through the death of your wife?