When a visit is the last of something, attention changes. The pattern on a mug, the sound the gate makes, the exact light in the hall all present themselves as if asking to be kept, and you find yourself recording a room you had walked through a hundred times without seeing. Endings sharpen perception in a way ordinary time cannot. That is painful, and it is also a kind of gift.

If you are inside such a visit, let yourself look rather than trying to say everything. Writing down three small details afterwards is a gentler way of keeping them than trusting memory alone.