touch his comb,
touch his pencils
go into his clothes drawers
mess with papers
and most of all touch his desk.
And we never did.
My father’s room was his private place. Ordered, filed, organized, with bills kept in chronological order, in alpha order, filed in neat manila holders. Holding some secrets- though not many- letters, tokens of affection, postcards, various awards
which we never saw since we were not allowed in his room.
Emotions he felt-love, sadness, regret, anger, frustration, closeted away
for no one to see.
Now my father’s room is my mother’s room. And still it is off limits, verboten, closed. Private. Do not disturb.
With admonitions not to open the door, or go in the room even to look.
Trying to keep the aura of my father alive. Hoping that a new window into my father will open up.
Now it is a place of solace.
A room to knit together the remnants.
A room to file papers and pay bills.
A room for grieving.
A room to escape to.
A room to get lost in.
We are waiting for an invitation to enter.