The House that Monday Built

Something old, lost but found. Written circa 2004/5


I am sitting in the house my father built. With his bare hands, he raised these walls on rocky foundations but yet stood firm in his bid to pass on his legacy. With a shaky smile he'd watch us grow, ears forever planted to the ground we trod on. Waiting

The cobwebs of deceit hang carelessly off the walls. Voices of disparage echo through the hallways, bedroom doors heaving with sighs and tears for what could have been. The lies gave birth to anger, the corner stone of our garden beds. Seeping through the back door are tulips, forget-me-nots and poison ivy

My father's rocking chair sits in the conservatory; lonely but leering in its spot of incrimination, emptier than a conch, unwise beyond its years. The frown lines on the arm rests dare me to forget the constant sighs I had to live with as tick followed tock. Time waited for this man or so it seemed

Father didn't love us, he trained us. The regime was strict and always he reminded us how thankful we should be to have him. His orders where simple: DO AS I SAY. With age came a reduction in the levy for our defiance. It's hard to raise a wire at your child when stroke has you part paralyzed

The warrior sat there for many more years. Waiting. To be bathed, to be fed, allowed to live but never loved. He clung on, even when he had no reason to. I don't miss him. Neither the screams nor shouts. Not the arguments or fears. His forever disapproving glares will taunt me no more

Those inch thick concave glasses were smashed by the gardener yesterday and he cried hysterically. Father would no longer intimidate him. This house was free. This house was ours. This house must be sold or the nightmares will never end

I don't miss fearfully monitoring the location of his walking stick. I refuse to look forward with hope of a fresh start, I have no childhood to speak of, what would a fresh start entail? Rebirth? Into whose arms?

I do miss what I never had. A father, a friend.