dad , we are separated only by a few thousand cups of morning tea , and when we finally dress you in wood and give away your things , re-adjust our house and lives , filling up the space , the warm seat of an armchair that you occupied through so many long and death filled afternoons , shall i drink from your cup , served still by mother , strangely alone , locked and distant in herself , mumbling nonsense to keep away the admonishments she does n't need to hear ?