He never got to come home—
or maybe he did,
but only as ash on a mantle,
a whisper in empty halls.
His laughter never found its way back,
his smile never crossed that threshold—
just the echo of memories
haunting every corner.
Photos line the walls,
one, two, three, four—
Father, Mother, Daughters—
but the count shifted somewhere along the way,
and we became three,
learning how to hold a space
he no longer filled.
We still set his side at the table,
his chair pulled close,
his side untouched,
clothes folded like time stopped in the closet,
everything still his—
a silent claim on a house that hasn’t been his
for eight years.
He left that home,
and came back in glass—
seven years ago.
So why does the house still belong to him?
Is it how we cope?
Or is it easier
than facing the empty other side?
