My Dad Is Dead. His Landlord Just Evicted Him.
When my father’s heart stopped, I had no choice but to keep moving. He had lived alone, and I understood that managing the logistics of his death—planning his funeral, settling his debts, divvying up his belongings—would be an enormous task. Those looming practical matters infuriated me; I hated that my world-shattering news had not, in fact, shattered the world. It kept spinning along, so I did too. I got the news on a Thursday; flew from my home in the United Kingdom to his home in Savannah, Georgia, on Saturday; and headed to his apartment with my sister on Monday to begin tying up the loose ends of his life. We didn’t have a key to his apartment, but my sister knew the building receptionist and was sure she’d let us in under the circumstances.
Instead, she turned us away. I began to panic: How would we get his suit for the funeral? How would we figure out if he had that we could use to pay for the funeral? When would we be allowed to empty his apartment, and would I still be in the country by then?
