Perfectly Imperfect

seven > > of boxes and mortality.

prompt seven: write a scene with no dialogue.

A/N: Yes, I know this is supposed to be a daily challenge. I'm just really crappy at writing every single day, and school keeps getting in the way. Oh well. At least I'm writing at all, right? That's kind of what the challenge is about. 

P.S. This is completely unedited so sorry for any grammar or spelling issues. Also, I'm much better at dialogue so sorry if this kind of sucks.

It's funny how each time you revisit a place it seems quite different, almost like an entire lifetime has passed since the last time you saw it. You're always startled by it, aren't you? The feeling of imense change in the air, even if every single thing in the place is in the exact same spot as before. 

That feeling seems to be multiplied by death. 

Now the simplicity in the air, the nostalgia, all seem to mock you. They seem to whisper, Things were once simpler. Things used to make sense. Too bad it couldn't stay that way, right? 

It's as though the place itself is laughing at you. 

I run my fingers across the piano in the dining room. It's a small, simple model, painted a light brown. Dad never had enough money for anything much better. I don't think he would want anything too grandoise even if he did have the money for it. Dad was always a simple man. He wanted very little out of life. He understood the importance of the smaller things. He understood how insignifigant this house or that car was when you were dying. Family and friends. Those were the things dad wanted. He didn't even want to be noticed, but simply to notice others. He liked making you feel as though you were the only person in the room. 

Liked. 

The recent change to past tense when thinking of my father has absolutely floored me. It feels like he will walk through the door any minute now. Say his quiet hello, take off his coat, plop onto the couch and begin reading whatever book he had with him. It doesn't feel like he's really gone. 

If I were seing a therapist, they would say I was in the "denial" stage of grief. I don't really care much for what stage I'm in. All I care about is the aching that settles from deep within me, deeper than just my heart. The ache that settles across my body, numbing me so that I may continue on. 

All I care about is the way this empty house, and the fact that I must sort through an entire person's life and decide what of theirs is worth keeping and worth throwing out, seems to make the ache spread even further.

It's as though the house itself is sucking me dry.  

I have been forcing myself to sort through dad's stuff the past week. I've slept in his bed three times that week, because it still smells exactly like him. Then I feel terrible because I know my scent will replace his if I keep sleeping in it. Then again, perhaps I will have to sell the bed. The house is going any day now, and I'm not even through half of his stuff. 

I sigh, continuing to catagorize my father's life into neat, empty boxes. It's a task that I have to dissociate myself from in order to get through. I know dad would understand, but it still hurts like hell having to make these decisions without him. I wonder what to do with each item I pick up, no matter how mundane it may sem.

 What would dad want me to do with this baseball card? I mean, it's just a card, right? What if it has more value though? What if I'm throwing out my dad's favorite card?

What about this pot? I think I cooked him mac and cheese on it once. That counts for something, doesn't it? I can't just throw out the pan, can I? I should keep it. But it is just a pan. Ugh.

This shirt. Dad liked this shirt. It's a button up like all the rest, though. What would I do with it though? I'm not a guy. I don't have a brother to give it to. It would be creepy to give it to a boyfriend, right? I should throw it away. But it smells like him. 

In conclusion, grieving sucks. It really, really sucks. 

Yet, I continue to catagorize my father's things into neat boxes, until his entire life is stored away. 

Until I realize someday this will be all that is left of me, of all of us. Each in our own boxes. Packed away. Eventually forgotten, no matter how we try to push the thought aside. So insignficant. Our lives are so damn insignificant. Perhaps my dad accepted this fate; he was rather old. Not old enough to die, but not young either. In his late fifties. No matter how much I try to convince myself of this, I know how untrue it is. He never accepted his fate. Do any of us?

Boxes. 

God damned boxes.

That's all I have left of my father. 

Pushing on, dusting myself off, and trying to forget my revelation, I stand up, pick up the first box and head out to my car with it.

What more can you do?

When you stumble upon your own mortality, you dust yourself off and continue on. 

This is the world, and it continues to spin, unrelenting despite it's occupants suffering. 

Boxes continue to be packed away.