Corpse and Family Things

I’m examining my own corpse, from the back. The skin’s been removed and the flesh is partly carved off, the remaining muscle is dry and yellowed. I trace up the spine with my fingers, looking for proof of the pain I had when alive.
It's not clear whether the 'me' who is touching the dead 'me' is dead, too. I could be an afterlife, angel sort of creature, removed from my earthly woes, or it could just be my consciousness, with a sensitive finger....
By the neck, I can see my main injury. The vertebrae are thin, and set crooked at a point marked by a flat red line.
‘There it is,’ I say out loud, satisfied.

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In the old apartment on Central Ave. (where we lived after the divorce).
I’ve returned home after a very long absence. The house is kind of dark, as it always was to avoid mom’s migraines. We’re preparing for a move of some kind, but not moving together. I live far away and have left behind all that is here. Similarly, my mother is about to give up this stockpile of memory and antique.

The heap of treasures looks nicer than I remember. The dining room has a chandelier, the sideboards are old and elegant, there are amazing tablecloths, dresses, pops’ medals and souvenirs and other richly meaningful items as well as pure luxury items.

Justin’s old room seems to be the only space that is comfortably lived in. (It is worth mentioning that in real life, this room is 10’x8’ with a very low ceiling. We could never understand how he handled it.)
He’s taken his bed out, and the little wood-panelled closet is now a little den to sit and smoke in. Candles are lit and music is playing.

I get the feeling that the move we're preparing for has something to do with San Francisco and perhaps a lover. A stipulation of this move is that she can’t take anything with her. This angers me, that she would leave her family history behind for a whim. Why can’t we just set up our things in the new place and live fabulously, not having to deny the past?

I become angry with her for not taking care of the things properly. They’re just sitting here neglected in this dark place. Why don’t we ever hang out here? Why don’t we turn this space into a warm inviting place for family to interact like family?

She points out that I was the one to leave the house. In essence, it’s my fault that these things are here, unused. It’s my fault that the family is ambivalent about one another.
We go into my old room, which is also stockpiled with items from my youth and more things that used to belong to pops. Blue cameo, old poems, donated designer dresses. I cry, grieving the realiziation that I’ve missed out on our family because I wasn’t present to it in my youth. Too busy running away from our problems, trying to be somewhere else.

Some dogs come up to greet me. They don’t touch me right away. They each have placards around their neck with instructions on how to meet them without getting bit. ('Call me Iz, and don't come too close. I'll come to you.' says one.) I’m afraid of their paranoid maneuvers, but pet and love them anyway.