This week, I spent a little time at Dad’s house, preparing for this weekend when my sisters are coming to town to start with the house. Until now, I have pretended it wasn’t there. Just a few miles away, full of Dad. His bedroom still smells like him, and his voice is still on the answering machine. He has touched just about everything I touch when I am there. It makes me think of this poet I heard when I was young and a student of poetry. He had a poem he wrote on grief. He wrote it a year after his wife had died, when he unexpectedly came across a single strand of her hair. He described how it surprised him, and how raw his grief was at the unexpected finding of it.
Right now, I know that Dad’s house is full of Dad. Thats pretty obvious. As I kick into practical girl mode this week, knowing we have to start the process of going through the house, I pause from time to time and think about the poem about the hair. You see, today? The trash seems like trash. The stuff seems like stuff. But I can’t help but wonder how I will feel 5 or 10 years from now – when he seems much farther away. Will I see a scrap of paper with his handwriting on it and feel moved? Will I feel differently about it then, than I do now? Already I can see scraps of his notes and tell which are before cancer, and which are after. I attach some heightened significance to the clear lines in his pre-cancer writing. But there are piles and piles of this writing. And there is a whole house full of his stuff.
He couldn’t take it with him, and we can’t take it all either. This week I found termites, and the rats that have plagued his house are back. So we treated for termites, cleaned out nests and set traps for rats, and now? I guess I have to start on the emotional infestation next.
Right now, I know that Dad’s house is full of Dad. Thats pretty obvious. As I kick into practical girl mode this week, knowing we have to start the process of going through the house, I pause from time to time and think about the poem about the hair. You see, today? The trash seems like trash. The stuff seems like stuff. But I can’t help but wonder how I will feel 5 or 10 years from now – when he seems much farther away. Will I see a scrap of paper with his handwriting on it and feel moved? Will I feel differently about it then, than I do now? Already I can see scraps of his notes and tell which are before cancer, and which are after. I attach some heightened significance to the clear lines in his pre-cancer writing. But there are piles and piles of this writing. And there is a whole house full of his stuff.
He couldn’t take it with him, and we can’t take it all either. This week I found termites, and the rats that have plagued his house are back. So we treated for termites, cleaned out nests and set traps for rats, and now? I guess I have to start on the emotional infestation next.
mostlyjenine 