standing around

this is day two of my great Floridian visit, and i still cannot find a comfortable place to sit. when i’m in dad’s house, i stand around, waiting for something to do, like wash a dish or move a piece of furniture. i feel awkward, under foot, but at the same time i feel a part of the household. this is not the home i grew up in, nor is that the dog i played with for hours. those are the cats i’ve avoided for ten years, and the same ham radio equipment; the faded prints of sailboats and lighthouses hang on the walls, just as the painting of dad and amie on their sailboat hangs auspiciously devoid of yours truly; the promise to paint me in left unfilled years after the artist’s death. i still, however, do not have a place to sit.