When I was thirteen, Kimberley and I went with our Nana to visit a friend of hers, whose name I've forgotten. She and her husband had never had children, and had travelled a lot over the years. Their house was filled with souvenirs of their travels, filled so much that there were no couches or chairs to sit on, only a daybed or two in each room for lounging.
Every sill and shelf and table was covered in pineapple-shaped salt and pepper shakers from Brisbane, or Hawaiian girls with bobbing heads playing the ukulele - that sort of thing. The day we visited, the sun was strong and streamed in every window, it seemed. Nana and her friend talked for ages, while we wandered the house and gingerly examined as many of the trinkets as we could.
A short while later, we visited again. This time, Nana's friend lay on one of the daybeds, tearful, her voice quivering when she talked. Her husband had died, and the festive geegaws around the house were just reminders of good times shared and never to happen again.
I never saw her again. I think she sold up and moved back to the Coast, maybe.