Subsequent to Easter Monday

Opening the door, it’s the smell of stale grief
that greets me.  As my eyes refocus, there’s dad,
fixed to the computer screen for I don’t know
how long.  As he turns, unfamiliar ripples form
in his shirt.  He breathes me a hello; knotted,
impersonal, like a stranger on a sound check.

I found two clues in the kitchen.  The first,
a hotel booking, countered by a cancellation
number across its top.  It was dad’s hand,
though blotted with a cheap biro that needed
throwing out.  I accepted this: its prominence
there to make a point on the kitchen table. 
But it was the second that concerned me more:
there – right there next to the sink – was a
bag of McCoy's, its contents left scrutinised,
replaced, with the clinks of a former currency.