By the time I reached my late parents’ house, the truck was gone. The nicotine-streaked walls were white now and all you could smell was paint. Every four-poster bed, buffet hutch, and bric-a-brac stand had been hauled away, along with all the autobiographies of 70s actors and all the books about wars. The rings and bracelets too tiny for my fingers and wrists had been boxed up and shipped out with the china figurines I spent my childhood trying not to break. Maybe I should have kept something? I don’t know. There was just the lone camelback sofa standing in the middle of the living room floor.