Make Yourself At Home CW: illness, suicide

Grandpa used to say that if the body were a house,

it was built with too many doors.

Eyes, ears, pores, assholes, wounds.

It was like we wanted everything to move in

and stay.

He was a doctor before his hands started shaking,

before the patients started walking out worse than they came in.

When grandpa moved in with me

he stayed.

Would talk on and on about every little thing.

The carpets needed vacuuming. The sheets needed changing.

The music was too loud.

The bathroom was too dirty.

There were too many things waiting to waltz through his doors and overstay their welcome.

When he died, it wasn’t to any microscopic tenant, any cancer that paid too much rent in his liver.

It was a bullet. Bought a room in his head but didn’t stay too long.

I missed him. Looked sad at the funeral. Told my sisters that he didn’t have to suffer any more.

Didn’t tell a soul about the part of me that was glad to be rid of him.

But it was nice to have peace and quiet.

When I got home, I cleaned the carpets. Put the bedding in the wash.

Tried to relax and listen to the radio, but shut it off after just a couple minutes.

It was too damn loud.

In the shower, I saw all the scum on the soap dish.

All the wriggling filth by the drain.

I thought to myself,

If the body were a house, it had too many doors.

Anything...anything at all…

Could just waltz in

and make itself at home.