There are fragments of you left about the house.

The coffee *** that no one ever uses because you’re the only one who ever drank it.
Your paintings, hung in the hallways and in the kitchen and in the living room.
The jacket hanging in the coat closet that fits me way too big.

I’ve gotten so good at ignoring them that I almost don’t see them.
But I’m not blind and I walk around with my eyes open seeing phantoms of our family.

You are selfish, immature, irresponsible.
And now every man I meet I compare to you.

These walls used to be full of warmth, laughter, happiness.
And now you’ve turned my home into a museum of what was and could have been.

It’s different and quiet and disturbing.
I’m different and quiet and sad.