Write. Read. Repeat.

Not a never, as I have been there.

Many times.

I used to live within the walls that he altered with spackle and paint and wood trim to create his own safe space.

I was a cherished decoration in the house of a man who had finally found himself.

A house now owned by unknowns.

I dare not see how they changed your sanctuary.

A place of memories.

The warm parties surrounded by friends and maybe a few too many drinks, but do not worry, anyone was welcome to stay if they needed.

The plaster that heard so much laughter and inside jokes.

The stones that gripped onto umami as we cooked ourselves around the world.

The floors that accepted the press of slippers and dance shoes with equal pleasure.

The walls that echoed our huh’s back and forth because neither of us could hear very well.

The sink where washing dishes together was quality time.

The yard where the science experiments got tested that were too dangerous inside.

The workshop where drawing and schematics became real.

The hallway were you took your last breath, alone and scared.

The bed you did not make it to.

The clothes in the hamper I would wash for the last time.

The driveway where I sold your favorite things to strangers for far less than they were worth.

The truck I chose to keep because it still smelled like you.

Your keyboard I type this on because our hands will never touch again.

Your paint brushes so that your creative may enhance mine.

The black box that sits on my bookshelf with you inside it.

I never want to visit my father’s home again because it is now just a house.