house, age 7
And so we spent all day gathering the wood. Morning to evening always took 100 years. White on the outside and less so internally: caramel coloured melamine nosing through holes - aching to splinter on a finger and be one of us. Nails, used and rusted, found and given. We would start with this house and then move to a sea raft once we were experts at houses. My brother one year and three months older than me, all confidence, all I knew and needed at age seven. His voice asked the questions and I interpreted the answers. That day was beyond a mild grey. It was a coming winter or a harsh spring, cold when we finished, after hammers and plans and saws. Fresh as caught fish and together, our furs moving towards something achievable and seeable. Something perishable.
a photo somewhere
our toothy grins matching
the shack yet to crumble
