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.