When the obese black blanket covers the sky, only I will remain. Solid and sturdy, like a seasoned tree in the solitude of the forest. I stand. A lost boy, frozen and frail, moves through the flourished stilts, they watch him, dodging bullet raindrops that pierce his tender soul. They beat down on his soft tissue like a rhythmic incessant taping during a Native American drum ritual. He nears. Dashing over crunched dandruff leafs that covers the earth’s scalp. He desperately craves the southern style heat hidden inside. Tentatively contemplating the nostalgic history of blood rushing back to his cheeks to revive and warm the lifeless skin, like the few seconds when waves pull away from the sand before soothingly restoring with water. He searches for the light that illuminates the dark outline. When he reaches it, he slowly breathes out wind from his lungs caressing the outside of the walls. He creeps up the stairs, causing a cacophony of creeks sending chills down his core. This house is worn, old, and brittle like a tattered piece of paper lying forgotten in the street. The rain continuously descends with the steady slight beat of a newborn’s heart. There is nothing in the house but silence.
Yet, a whisper questions this silence. Is it hiding or screeching in an unhearable tone for someone to listen, to ask. Ask where my secrets lie. Hidden under floorboards of my spine where dust fancifully dances when the unexpected breeze, breathes a tune. He sits, reluctantly ruminating about why there is no furniture in this house. There’s no brilliant movements captured in a rectangle prisons, no marshmallow sofa to cocoon him after a long, long day.
This is not a home, this is a house. Four melanin walls are harboring only emptiness. Yet to be filled with blaring horns at midnight adventures, loud laughs at 1, cautionary conversations 2am, generous giggles at 3, satisfying slumbers at 4, and an enveloping embrace at 5. I am waiting to be filled with and electric blinding light that ejects through my pores. I am waiting for memories to remember. For friends I won’t forget. For bright city lights and contagious confidence brought on by painting the town red with friends. In this house there is no love, yet. The boy will soon become a man who will surround his soul around my fourth finger. And my house will be filled. I will be a home, home is when calm afternoons rock you to sleep on your southern wraparound porch and we stare at the accordion fans under each other’s eyes for hours. And laughter bubbles from your throat and erupts into the air. If that is home, then at present, at least, I am a house.