The empty boxes sit dusty broken down against the wall and the sun streams through the window to show a quiet room filled with dancing particles in the light. Everything stacked untouched in a home where the owner is no longer breathing. Left behind is memories and leaves his hands robbed with nothing human to touch. He stands in a vacant home unable to box belongings cherished by a father who he watched gasp for breath at his bodies last attempts to resist exit in this world. Fathers Day has never become a more painful approaching day. No mother and now no father. An orphan left behind and not quite sure how to fit into this world. He looked like a beaten soilder coming off the battlefeild. His shirt is dirty and worn and his baseball hat he keeps removing and putting back on - an obssesive compulsive movement he can't seem to stop. He is looking for comfort that is lost and no matter how much he puts put his arms he can't quite reach. He stares at family pictures and tries to remember just who the hell he was suppose to be. He says "fuck" over and over into an empty space to keep from crying, screaming, or hitting something. He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to feel. He just wants Fathers Day to go away.