Kitchen

My dad died in the kitchen of his house.
My brother has moved into that house since he’s pretty much getting a divorce and the lease was up on the house he was living in.
Brother’s friends have been amazing. They have rallied around him, assisting with everything from patching walls to re-doing the garage to helping him move all his stuff.
I did my best to chip in.
Until Brother asked me to unpack the fridge food into the kitchen.

I can’t step foot in the kitchen, not yet. The only way in or through the kitchen is right over where my father died. So no. I can’t go into the kitchen. I can go around it, the way the house is built makes it possible. Not through it though. I just can’t.

I know it’s ridiculous. I know I’ll get over it. Nobody is pushing me to get past that hangup. But I know that I need to. I just can’t help it. When anyone walks through the kitchen, I think about how I found my dad and it puts me right back to that place and I want to run screaming from the county. Yes, the county.

I’m glad Brother is living in the house, he’s fixing it up and eventually we’ll end up selling it I’m sure. But for now, I’m glad he’s living in the house he grew up in. That’s what that house is to Brother.

To me, that’s the house that killed my dad. So no, I don’t ever want to live there. Ever.

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