How quickly a life is reduced to boxes.

A home becomes a house. A home becomes four walls and empty rooms. Pictures become pinholes.

Keepsakes bundled with newspaper, plates covered with bubble wrap. The memories, sealed and sent to storage.

How quickly a life changes.

Because of actions, decisions, a lifestyle.

Because it’s nothing but bad luck.

How quickly time catches up.

~

Stalked by the clock

Time chases me. 

From our family home to the cottage. A widower’s bungalow to basement apartment.

To a place where I thought I could rest. Where I made it my own.

Because I’ve always made it on my own.

The photos on the walls. The knickknacks. The tacky signs and fridge magnets from the 90s. Even the smell. Ashtrays with a hint of wet dog. Dove soap and Tide laundry detergent.

My personality paints the drywall. My presence, like an essence in the air.

Forget style. Fuck design.

It’s for me, by me.

All me.

Well… Not anymore.

No man makes what Time can’t take. Out of consequence and in tragedy, it always comes to collect.

Fight or fade away

I was forced to let it all go.

In the span of a day, without a say. With one stroke and then another.

I’m humbled by 72 years of hard, fast living. Humbled by alcohol and cigarettes chased with brain trauma. 

Now, my mind plays tricks.

It believes I can do what I always could. Drive a car or go hunting. Live like I used to. 

But…

I’m a survivor, either way. “I’m going to fight for my life back!”

With tooth and nail and in spite of the odds. I’m going to fight for my independence, take care of my responsibilities. 

I’m going to fight for whatever quality of life there is to be had.

I’m not ready to fade away…

~

Bitterness in boxes

You didn’t want to think about it.

Now, there’s no choice. He’s going through it, so you have to deal with it.

Son, first. Power of Attorney, second.

Like it matters.

Suddenly, you’re the decision maker. To make the right call. To feel the ‘what if?’ pressure with every call you make.

He’s trying to rebuild. You’re giving what you can. But, really, you’re taking most of it away.

”It’s in his best interest, right?”

Box by box. Pieces of him put away for another day. Or to be forgotten, forsaken.

Bit by bitter bit, you dismantle your father’s home.

Gutted by guilt

What remains?

Guilt, twice folded. 

Once for feeling like you’re taking everything away. Once again for feeling relief after everything’s finally put away.

It’s a lot of work, physically and emotionally, packing up someone’s life. Especially when it’s your dad and he’s in the hospital two hours away.

That means weekends apart from your partner (and your pooches). It’s working on the weekdays and traveling/visiting/packing/laundry/etcetera on the weekends.

It’s stress, worry, and burnout on repeat for four-and-a-half months.

That’s a selfish perspective, right?

Because it’s nothing compared to what he went through.

What he’s going through…

~

Better get used to it

Can you imagine all that change?

Trying to pick up the pieces and start over. Trying to live with the glitches that remain. Trying to find purpose during the End Game.

Suppose we all are, in a way.

At one point or another, you’re tossed into the eye of the shit storm. Tragedy and health crisis, your relationship fails or you lose your job.

Change: unexpected and uninvited, uncomfortable and unwanted.

Like it or not, shit happens. There’s no escape.

That’s life. Accept it and move forward.

What choice do you have?