It was the place I called home,
sort of.
Dad’s home
for nearly four decades.
After the divorce
I stayed there,
with him
Wednesdays and
every other weekend,
the typical dad schedule.
From the rock hard twin beds
to the displays of
circus wagons and magic tricks,
nothing changed;
Dad and his home were constants
in a life riddled with inconsistency.
Reaching adulthood,
I would visit
more often at first,
less so when
I was busy with my own family.
Never changing,
Dad’s home stayed the same
except for the time
he developed a crush
on an interior decorator
She painted
his beige walls forest green.
For twenty years,
those forest green walls
remained.
Dated,
but as constant
as the forests they mimicked.
Dad died a year ago
and words like probate and estate,
found their way into my vocabulary.
Those words clogged my throat
and I just wanted to go home
to the constant ever-green of Dad’s living room
so I could breath again.
The forest is gone now,
painted over
in a more marketable color,
or so I am told.
The forest has turned light grey,
the color of skies before a storm,
but the walls
enclosing my Dad’s home
were still accessible,
for a time.
At the closing table,
they disappeared too.
Those walls, like my Dad,
were impenetrable,
dated, but
always there.
Always.
Until they weren’t.
~ Mk Michaels
