Dust

The building collapsed from the passing trucks shaking its foundation once too many times.  Felled as if bombed. Into rubble. Into dust. Then you rebuilt, brick by brick by heavy brick. You rebuilt it with your growing hands and legs and pre-pubescent body. You built in the style you thought they would like and admire, a style that might bring you love, might bring you respect. And then year after year, you struggled to keep it together, patching and repairing, renovating, plastering, nailing. You kept them in mind, what they would like, what they would admire and respect. Then they died. But you kept the structure. You still wanted love and respect, You continued to repair the building, and you moved inside it even though it didn’t really belong to you. ​