I.
Father died one day.
Or perhaps another.
He was asleep in
his bed. Now me sitting in his apartment,
in his easy chair, watching TV in the proximity of Place that he had, I find
that all the items around are artifacts made some Place else by others. My father may have touched them, but they are
not his invention. They hold vague
memories, he seated, quietly hunched over asleep, or staring ahead, sometimes
speaking to the demons of his world or to some obscure internal refrains. Actually, the artifacts hold nothing.
I find no artifacts that he actually
produced with intention. There is a
slight residue of excrement on the toilet side.
It does not speak to me; it makes no motion, starts no action. There is no sense of him here, no
interaction. I mull over thoughts,
interpretations of what I need. I struggle
to find sentiment and I ask why I demand that.
What is it I demand from this Place?