In the bedroom, we are made of pain. Pain of birth. Pain of death. Pain of getting out of bed with bad backs, messy hair, creaky knees, and hangovers.
In the kitchen, we are made of complaints. Burnt toast. Cold coffee. Tight pants. No time.
In the living room, we are made of distraction. Puzzle pieces to lose. Toys to trip over. Tearful conversations. Reruns of old movies into the early morning hours.
In the garden, we are made of memory. Spring flowers. Vegetables. Walks with love lost.
We are made of a house in slow collapse. Broken pipes. Peeled paint. Departures.
We are made of what we make of ourselves. Even when we deny what we are. Even when we refuse to make anything at all.
published in Write Under the Moon
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