House

The house I grew up in is broken.

The stairs are crooked. The wiring makes a better home for the cardinal that sits outside my window than for the relay of messages between my brain and torso.

Some parts will never see the sunlight. Gaps of light peak through from boards that are rotting. One day I’ll be able to look it in the mirror without wincing.

This building isn’t meant to house me. Whatever blueprints were ordered have never arrived. At least, that’s the best I can tell from the shreds of the deed leftover from the fire.

Arson. As if anyone would call what a phoenix does ‘arson.’ I’ve done what I can with this block I’ve been given. It’s not my fault the neighborhood doesn’t have any governing association.

My house is different. The doors are larger than others and the original intention of the plumber is anyone’s guess. The yard needs attention. The neighbors next door complain about the non-stop construction with a notice out front. “It doesn’t take 25 years to build a house,” they mumble.

My house is better. A house built by one cannot be built quickly. It’s doing the best that it can with what it’s been given: volunteer labor and parts from the discard bin.

My house is good and the foyer is especially ornate. Any invited guests who enter in gesture in awe. It’s remarkable what can be done on your own. This is my house, my body is broken. This is my house, and my house is good.