In March of 2005, Dad packed his things and left the house that he raised me in. I didn’t notice anything missing, except for a black and white photo album off the mantle and the lounge chair he slept on for two years.
His new home, a renovated split-level, was empty like an abandoned barn: beautiful in its own tragic way, with barely enough strength to keep it from toppling over into a pile of rotted wood.
It was vacant, despite all the possessions and bodies that lay lifeless inside the walls.
Years of silent dinners amplified by echoes of awkward tiptoeing and closing doors to hide the things nobody knew how to say.