Some people are buying chez Murphy. In a couple weeks, they’ll be in, and we’ll be out. It’s not that I was attached to that particular house. It wasn’t home to me. But, it was the last place my father slept. The last place he ate breakfast. The last place I saw his face still lit up by life. I can go to any room in this house and envision him there. In the new house, though, he’ll be foreign, strange, wrong. Like trying to peel off my favorite wallpaper and transplant it on a different wall, some pieces won’t come, and what does won’t fit the same way anymore.
We packed him up and put him in a box in the ground. Then, we gathered his belongings and shoved them into cartons. Now, we’re doing the same with his memory.
It’s too soon. The house still feels like some sort of shrine, a tribute to his impact on our lives. People would say he’d be happy we’re moving on and adjusting to life without him. I don’t know about that. If it were me, and I came back from the beyond to check on my family and found they’d split and left no forwarding address, I’d be pissed.
Everyone–by their actions and attitudes–is telling me the mourning is over. Except it isn’t. Not for me. I’m still sitting by a coffin in a candle-lit room, wondering why their worlds keep spinning when mine has clearly stopped.
With everything else, I have a choice. No matter what I say about Tyne and my uncontrollable urges to go there, I do have a choice. But, not in this. The house will sell with or without my permission, and the final bits of his life will quietly slip away. And I just can’t forgive Mom for that.
Hell and Wheels 
October 12th, 2010 at 2:43 pm
AVERY HERE: Res didn't feel comfortable replying to these comments, so I'm doing it for her.Walking Man — "…for you are the shrine…" How very true. Stuff is just stuff, more temporal than even our short time on this planet. Charles — I think that's what she's afraid of.G — Thanks for stopping by. Hanging on does indeed require some letting go.Anon — Thanks for visiting and sharing. I'm sorry for your loss. As someone who is currently renovating a home, I understand the spiritual connection one forges with the space. Having such visible reminders of your father's efforts must have indeed made a difficult task even more strenuous for you.
October 11th, 2010 at 7:21 pm
You hit a deep note with me here, Res. It was easy to say goodbye to the old, angry, violent fart with Alzheimer's. It was VERY HARD to say goodbye to his house, which he built shelves and cabinets and a picnic table for. Which we lived in with him for years. His energy was all through that house. To sell it was just awful.
October 8th, 2010 at 10:08 pm
Poignant.As Charles says, in your new house your father will only be ghost, but he will still be with you in your heart and your memories.
October 8th, 2010 at 1:18 pm
In the new house your father will only be a ghost.
October 8th, 2010 at 12:59 pm
No one can tell another when their grief ends, no one has that ability. They can open their mouth and tell you this or that which mostly contains words like "Move on." Bullshit.Your father has passed from this life to a place you are not certain of and you want him to not have gone, at least not without you and you grieve for both his leaving and your staying behind. Grieve for the first but not the second.Selling the house is not selling the shrine Ms. Murphy for you are the shrine. You are the holiest of all that he left behind to be remembered by.I do not know you, have seen your writing around here and there, liked it. Recently started coming to read it. Looked back through some of you earlier writings. Liked them.Your father sleeps in the house of his ancestors and he is troubled no more with any malady of humanity, he is well.Go to Tyne and do your best to fit as you will and be assured that with you he goes as well.Grieve as long as you have to. But grow as well. He would want nothing more nor less of you.