My Father's Son - March 29 2026

 

My Father’s Son

March 29 2026

The first time I entered his bedroom

after his death

felt like a violation,

intruding into a private space

as if eyes were taking me in.

There was a stillness there

that felt unnatural,

a staleness to the air

I could only attribute

to days of sitting undisturbed.

A sleepy museum

with few visitors

where documents moulder away

and displays collect dust

might smell much the same.

There was also a musky hint of aftershave,

as well as something ineffable

that triggered memory

the way a pheromone enters the brain 

beyond the awareness of smell.

His things were all there, 

a diorama

of valuables

mementos

and sentimental treasures,

of the everyday stuff

he was last to touch;

how a half-used tube of toothpaste

becomes somehow meaningful

left like that,

a still-life

frozen in time.

Did they resent my presence,

would it be irreverent

to clear the place out?

Yet something needed to be done

and it had fallen to me.

A row of empty suits

in sober greys and blues

hung meticulously

on chunky wooden hangars

in the cramped bedroom closet

behind sticky bi-fold doors;

likely too big for me

if I could bring myself to wear them.

But that would be presumptuous

I’d feel like an imposter.

Hardly surprising

this trove of formal wear.

He always wore a suit and tie,

dressing quietly

in the morning darkness,

then off to work

while the rest of us slept.

I doubt he owned a T-shirt

while sweats were unthinkable;

and to imagine a ball cap

on his balding head

seems absurd.

I guess the Sally Ann will get them

when I get around to clearing out.

He never approved of waste

and — my father's son — neither do I.

An out-of-date cut, but very well made;

the sort of timeless fashion

that always looks good.

Bespoke suits

made to last

that he couldn’t outlive. 

I actually only entered my parents’ bedroom once after my father’s death. My mother opened his closet full of suits and invited me to take whatever I wanted. I immediately declined:  it seemed irreverent, not my style, wouldn’t fit. The latter consideration was entirely practical. But you could take it as symbolic as well:  unable to fill his shoes, so to speak. =

(Btw, I was not the hard working responsible child of the poem. My older brother and sister-in-law took on the time consuming job of death cleaning. As I recall. Or perhaps my mother did with their help, and only after her move into care did they do everything.)