By R. Cary
These walls, this room, the television; sirens. Arrests. Anger, these sounds would silence his comfort. In this room, where he rested. My father. The heart of this room. These walls breathe of his discomfort. Echo his discomfort. Breathe the sounds of his discomfort. But in his discomfort was his love for this room, the love of his family was felt in this room. I feel his disturbance, in these walls. Attacking my senses, assaulting my senses. His heart beats in this room. His memory in these walls disturbs my own sense of peace. How I miss the heart of this room. Just a few days ago was March 17th, 2022. 5 years since my father’s death, when the heart of this room ceased to beat. My bike, within these walls, the shape of this room, facing the television beckons my reprieve, to make this room have a heart to beat again. Maybe, just maybe, if I pedal hard enough my discomfort will end. And I will feel this beat. These walls attacking my senses will cease their assault and my father will leave this room. To let these walls rest in their own silence. Giving new life to this room. Maybe this room’s form of contempt will lessen, letting its heart grow. Maybe these walls holding sounds of my father will cease and the life of this family will have its heart again.
By R. Cary