My Father's House.

I hate going to my father's house. I love my dad. I love seeing him. I love his jokes and his goofy sense of humor. But I'm angry.

I hate his house. I hate the emptiness.

She was so uncomfortable in the last month. The searing pain enveloped her. She couldn't move; she would just hold herself. I remember her shower. And how she and I had a secret, that she would shower alone - and that my dad wouldn't know! He was so overbearing, so overprotective.

So I let her shower alone. I let her have her private time, away from the baby monitors. I didn't want her to be uncomfortable anymore. I wanted her to have privacy and to know I trusted her. That the disease hadn't taken over.

But... she screamed for me. She couldn't finish the shower. She couldn't lift her arms over her head to wash her hair. It hurt too much. The cancer in her bones... it kills me, knowing that it's still there. Six feet and a cement block stopping the cancer from escaping.

I hugged her with a towel; I got her more pain medication. What was the use, though? The medication never worked anyway.

I took her to her room. It was always dark and stuffy. Medications and tissue boxes. That's all I see now, when I see that room.

I hate the living room. It reminds me of how she was defiant. She shuffled, with her oxygen cord, every day to sit in the chair. She loved the freedom it gave her, the independence. She told me, she just wanted to be independent. Why wasn't her defiance enough? She didn't want the cancer there - why didn't it just get the fuck out of her body?

I hate the dining room. The time she sat in front of me and told me it was okay to be mad at her. I hate that anger at her nibbles at me from time to time.

I hate the kitchen, and how it's missing her presence by the coffee pot, the sink, the counter.

I hate the den, where I would hide from everyone so they wouldn't see my tears.

I even hate the driveway. Where she spent the good days taking walks, getting stronger. Why couldn't she stay strong?

I never thought it would be possible to hate the place I grew up, but I do. I hate everything about it. I don't want those memories. I want the good ones. Where did the good memories go? Why can I only remember the things that hurt?

I miss my mom. I miss her so much that it feels like my insides are tiny little knots.

I hate that I hate these things. I hate that I'm angry. I can't stop being angry. I can't.