there a times when i wander the house aimlessly. where i don't remember getting up and beginning the adventure because when it ends, it ends in blurred vision. i walk down the stairs from my room. i look around the corner to the dining room and no one's there. i turn and look around the other corner and no one is in the bathroom. i turn and walk down to the basement and look down the stairs. no one. i come back and the kitchen is empty. the living room is also empty.

i search rooms for something to bring me back to reality. i don't want to go on the computer. there are people worth talking to but i don't feel like typing. i'm really interested in the plot of my book, but i don't want to hold the pages apart to read it. i'm too tired to open my textbooks.

i always find myself in the living room. staring aimlessly out the window. staring down the houses outside wondering who's going to blink first. i turn away shortly from the white of the snow and the warm houses holding happy, or what i perceive, as happy families.

i turn to the table between the two windows and feel a sadness encompass me. i hold each item carefully, as if they'll fade away in my hands. as if i might handle them wrong and they will turn to dust. who ever thought reading glasses were so precious? who knew there'd be a wanting to wear the sweater so neatly folded on the table....

i open the box, feeling as if i've broken some kind of rule. i look inside and take a deep breath as i stare at the second container. the real container. i look at what is left of him. what is left of the 18 years he was in and the 54 years he lived. i stare at until my eyes begin to burn but i know if i'll blink i'll cry again. so i close the lid and look at the grown. i turn my toes on the carpet as a child would when asking a question whilst being scared of the answer. i put my hands behind my back and revert to my old, childish self.

i come here to be close to him because this is the only room you can feel him. because you can picture him so easily sitting on the couch that no longer inhabits the room. you can see him with his feet on the coffee table. a blanket around his bare chest, those important reading glasses resting at the end of his nose. his surprise to see you there. him asking for a kiss goodnight, or a hug goodbye. you can see him peacefully on the couch, after he left. you can picture it so well, so much that sometimes, it's damaging.

these glasses, this sweater. these are his things that will never be of any importance to many people. and i'm shaken from the daze and notice where i am. so i sit down the floor then lay down on my back, sprawling myself out. i close my eyes, listening to the quiet. being as still as possible in fear i may hear him once again. in fear i might lose the one moment where he reaches out to me.

this room is like cocaine for an addict.