back_to_the_old_house
birdmad
Saturday
morning
finds
me
awake
at
an
hour
through
which
i'd
much
rather
be
sleeping
.
My
brother
,
one
of
my
sisters
and
i
are
preparing
the
house
we
grew
up
in
to
be
sold
.
Only
one
visit
to
the
house
since
i
left
it
,
not
including
these
trips
to
replace
or
repair
For
the
other
two
,
the
memories
of
the
house
are
drawn
in
wistful
tones,
childhood
idylls
and
travails
in
equal
measure
.
The
pictures
in
my
head
are
less
soft
or
sweet
.
I
can't
stand
to
be
in
the
room
where
my
dad
gave
up
his
last
rattling
breaths
,
i
made
sure
to
take
care
of
the
tasks
i
was
given
in
there
as
quickly
as
i
could
to
try
and
be
free
of
the
weight
of
that
moment
when
it
stopped
.
My
last
memories
of
the
house
i
grew
up
in
encompass
a
period
of
uniform
difficulty.
Watching
my
dad
die
was
really
just
the
first
domino
to
fall
.
There
are
happy
memories
of
the
place
as
well
,
but
for
me
,
i
can't
paint
the
whole
thing
in
soft
-focused sentimentality.
Time
and
the
keen
hunger
of
where
it
has
led
me
painted
pictures
in
the
kind
of
clear
,
sharp
lines
and
edges
that
sit
starkly
and
cut
deeply
.
the
kind
that
never
manage
to
dull
or
blur
030426
...
morrissey
i'd
rather
not
go
.
030427
what's it to you?
who
go
blather
from
