split

the foundation has buckled dramatically, resting unevenly, so

we stand

on entirely different floors now.

a split-

level

home,

in a truer sense of the term,

that divides our space,

our experience,

our lives, and

our identity.

the warped and fractured wood

where once sat our father's favorite chair — an

impossibly white recliner with stitchings of blue, now stained red and meant for distraction, not necessarily relaxation —

creaks under our weight.

we disposed of the seat entirely, but the floor still holds that space — deeply pressed into the grain of the boards — for the return of legs hellbent on stagnation. should we replace it with another chair to sit, distract, and let our joints rest? perhaps a table to hold all of our material belongings?

or shall we leave the reminder open and bare, like scars playing an elegy

to the way things used to be?

the house designed to keep us in place,

keep us working,

keep us quelled,

keep us resting,

keep us inactive,

works best the more impossible a repair seems.

it doesn't matter how terribly drywall and supports crash down around us; what matters is the answer to one single question: "but did you die?"

some might go so far as to show us what renovation could look like under the most harrowing of conditions.

which is essentially just showing us what loss looks like without the act of replacing.

this is familiar to us already

it's:

dismantling.

destruction.

demolishing.

sometimes it's even

remodeling the old,

but never rebuilding new.

let me remind us all now, though:

salvaging a caving roof, crumbling around us, ensures we will never feel at ease.

even if we reinforce it, that band-aid is doomed to leak and

wreak havoc.

a buckling foundation will collapse, no matter how many bricks we replace; no matter how far back we trace the horizontal cracks, looking doesn't solve it.

water will continue to come, no matter how many buckets we situate; no matter the degree we install our downspouts and gutters; no matter how many prayers we sing to make the rains cease.

a report is made showing the leaks, the mildew, the lack of integrity;

a report is made that may even show how to slow them.

but

the report will never show the key to a pristine house.

the report must make you think you can achieve it

with useless tips and jazzy tricks, but not structural change.

the report will lie.

the report is not peer-reviewed and subject to change.

our old man may have been able to play-pretend, sitting back, kicking his feet up, and drinking his good ol' american beer, but

we inherited this dilapidated house.

the one with furniture stained,

floors sinking,

mold forming,

load-bearing beams cracked,

water filling, and

shingles falling. it's

a dying house.

once bright and hopeful walls now look pallid and sick. a cancer has crept through the entire facade.

windows that once let in light now show only years of dust and grime collected around the frame. the pane has turned a shaded grey, almost tinted, with concentrated dirt in the tiny ruptures filling the glass. these fractures spider out, reaching, begging for a sash that can barely hold the glass in place.

we have no prospects for new infrastructure right now,

no surplus of new building materials,

no chance of moving either.

we've got to use and make do with what we've got,

but i'll be honest, for most of us,

that's not a lot.

what we've got is this

broken home that we assumed,

and now

we've got to learn how to fix it.