After the flood, they grieved every object — and nobody could call it wrong

The water went down just before dawn. He opened the door to mud — not a thin film, but a thick, heavy layer over the whole floor, halfway up the wardrobe. The smell of silt and wet wood. He stood in the doorway for a while, not sure where to begin.

The TV lay tilted in the corner, a crack across the screen. The chairs had gone soft. Neighbours stopped by and every one of them said the same sentence: at least you're both alive. He nodded, because it was true. But his wife had saved for three years to buy that TV, and other people being right didn't make him miss it any less. He carried it out to the yard, set it down, and went back in to keep cleaning.

She said: leave it, what's there to miss. The wardrobe had been made for their wedding, forty years ago, and now it was full of mud and rotting through. Then she picked up a rag, crouched in front of it, and started wiping. He watched her hands for a moment and understood: "leave it" was for him, so he'd hurt less. She was the one who couldn't let go. He found another rag and crouched down beside her.

The relief team arrived with noodles and water. They thanked them, then asked for only one thing: was there anyone who could help shovel mud. Dry noodles are fine. Hunger can wait. Furniture soaking one more day rots one more inch. Though in truth he knew it was already gone. He washed each piece anyway — not to save it, but because things gathered over a lifetime deserve to be grieved properly. She sat on a low stool beside him. The box of noodles stayed unopened.

The flood took the wardrobe, the TV. Let it. The two of us are still here, washing together.

A house can be cleaned. Things can be replaced, or not. But what is there in your home that you'd mourn if it went — even while everyone tells you that you're lucky to be alive?