Foundations

Through the infinite back door of my grandparents’ house,

I remember believing in the sanctuary of stuff—the eternally cluttered—

that it could never waver. The concrete driveway was painfully chipped.

My naked toes used to bleed on its jagged teeth

as we scraped little chalk paintings onto the few smooth spaces.

But one day, as we performed our eight-year-old dances in the sprinkler’s rain,

the Concrete King arrived on a yellow chariot and saved us from the rubble.

We never thought we needed to be saved until then.

I remember walking into the utility room and saying utility room, utility room in my head,

rehearsing the foreign phrase, some fairyland space that only

grandparents had room for. There was a veteran desk sitting in the middle

with drawers full of exhausted sunglasses, mismatched cases,

gloves worn raw, a match, and a lighter or two.

This was our make-believe chest. We existed in it.

We’d camouflage ourselves in old lenses and trek to the swing set

almost convinced we were untouchable.

We spent the end of that July inside in recycled, living room air.

Fox News blared from the screen in the corner, and I remember

my grandparents grunting along in disheartened agreement.

I never cared, not one bit.

My paper dolls meticulously clipped from old magazines

blurred the lines of reality just like the news stories.

I’d steal the prettiest girls from my sister’s stash and she’d screech

her younger, velociraptor screech until we were both a heap of

legs and arms tangled viciously on the carpet.

One would rise victoriously, the other would pout

at the red knees and elbows, the burn of defeat from the rug.

Then we would scamper to the den and listen to the hollowness

beneath the floor. We screamed every time the house would settle,

and Mema would hush us with the old place cracks his knuckles sometimes!

And we didn’t argue with that impeccable logic.

Years later, another Concrete King fixed the foundation of the house

because if you crack your knuckles enough, a bone might break.

I remember jabbing the keys of the piano when I wanted to release their

musical secret.

The out-of-tune breath of the wooden monster was hot and unpleasant,

but Mema still cheered and applauded and wept at every original piece.

We’d begin sunrise with the wooden beast, and Mema would burn bacon to a crisp

and feed us like the starving children she must’ve imagined us to be

and we’d watch cartoons until the reruns flashed across the screen.

If we ever confessed our boredom, we were sent to the basement

to make new games with very old instruments—

a pool table, a metal exercise bike, a letterman jacket and a giant map on the

wall.And somehow, every time, we made a universe out of it.

When we finished, we’d flick the lights off and gallop up the carpet steps

with a tingle in our stomachs, terrified of the creatures we’d left in

the shadows.

I remember tumbling into my Mema’s arms,

testing her balance, abiding in her strength.

I never thought I needed to be saved until

that moment when her body was my shield and no ghost could tear at

my clothes.

But I knew, too, like the old settling house,

that cracked knuckles led to broken bones

and broken bones can heal, but they don’t just fade away.

I’ve been watching the color fade from her for far too long,

and it fades from the house, fades from her memory.

I watch her eyes lose their light and I try to synthesize

every ounce of information I’ve ever shared with her.

But the colors on the photographs have faded, too.

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