No One Home

Well, today I find myself at my father’s house on our ranch in eastern Oklahoma. He passed away back in December and although we have visited the place a few times, we have still had the luxury of leaving things temporarily undisturbed. However, it has come time to sort through some of his personal belongings as well as tie up some of his affairs. It’s strange being back here in his house. Even though this is a place I have dearly loved and spent a great deal of time in, things just aren’t the same without his presence. In fact, they are totally different. Heirlooms and furniture which seemed so impressive and valuable have lost their luster entirely. I realize, finally, that it was only the man I cared about and not any of the stuff. So I return to this poem, which I wrote in this very house on the afternoon he died. It’s words still ring true and capture my feelings entirely. The moral of the story: stuff doesn’t really matter. It’s the people in our lives who have value. The trappings which surround them amount to little more than mere window dressing. When I get back home I will return with an entirely different perspective regarding our possessions and the people who share them. Stuff is only stuff, after all. Let us celebrate, rather, the lives we have to live and the people God blesses us with. In the end, we shall discover that only they mattered.

No One Home
I’m back, alone, at dad’s house
He died just this afternoon
How strange and empty it seems now
As I wander from room to room
I feel as if I’m looking for something
Some memento to latch on to
In hopes of staying connected
But it seems that none will do
This house, this dad museum
Filled with so many familiar things
Holds nothing with any promise
Of what I hoped that it would bring
It turns out that this big house
Along with all that it contains
Was just an appendage of its owner
Somehow, a part of his remains
Without him, they are lifeless
Their luster tarnished instantly
So, in the absence of my father
They have lost their majesty
Like a mirror with no person
To reflect, an empty slate
Which accentuates his passing
As if it too mourns his fate
And I realize that all the stuff
Means nothing without him
Like mere pictures in a scrapbook
Grown faded, cracked and dim
So I choose not to disturb the house
A sort of dad-shrine, if you will
And tiptoe upstairs to my bedroom
To leave it dark and quiet and still
And as I lie there in the darkness
Breathing in that sacred air
I imagine that he is downstairs
Reading in his favorite chair
By Frank Carpenter ©