A gold lamp sat on his desk. The paint had been rubbed off on the angles and various edges. When left on for too long, it became hot, untouchable.
There are things my mother kept around, I don't know why she did, Such as the cracks in the walls from being kicked too hard, her bed frame she claimed to have been pushed onto and then hit by his fists. Or a lamp that got too hot, and needed a firm hand to twist the **** that turned it off and on again.
There are memories of him I don’t know why I keep around. His messy work desk, His big powerful hands, His booming voice.
I allow my mother room To keep pieces of him Because it’s hard to forget A husband of over twenty years.
I allow myself room To not forget him, Because it’s hard to hate your father Forever.