I've heard this thing where, when someone dies, <br />People close up all the holes around the house— <br />The keyholes, the chimney, the windows, <br />Even the mouths of the animals, the dogs and the pigs. <br />It's so the soul won't be confused, or tempted. <br />It's so when the soul comes out of the body it's been in <br />But that doesn't work anymore, <br />It won't simply go into another one <br />And try to make itself at home, <br />Pretending as if nothing happened. <br />There's no mystery—it's too much work to move on. <br />It isn't anybody's fault. A soul is like any of us. <br />It gets used to things, especially after a long life. <br />The way I sit in my living-room chair, <br />The indentation I have put in it now <br />After so many years—that's how I understand. <br />It's my chair, <br />And I know how to sit in it.<br /><br />Alberto Ríos<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-chair-she-sits-in/
