My stepfather of 12 years leaves when I am 16-years-old. Confronted with the enormity of this event, I decide to go home and calmly watch my father pack. I am not angry and I do not judge. The mild surprise I first felt has faded into acceptance. I chat with my father as though this may not be the last time I ever see him. I've changed my programming drastically since this happened the first time.

I am the zen-master of denial. Instead of peace-through-discipline I take shortcuts. I haven't cleaned up the room but instead shove everything into the closet and lock the door. I've long since lost the key.

It is now a week since my father left. The first and last contact I have with him is a casual lunch. He offers the invite when he stops by the house to pick up some forgotten belongings. Father and son say their goodbyes with few words between mouthfuls of sandwich. When we are finished I attempt to pay for my meal and my father seems offended.

But of course he is father to me no more. I have already turned that switch off and he is now nothing more than some man to me.

A cast off piece of the past strewn across a closet-room floor.