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1067
Jungle Ruin

He’s the love interest and he says, “Now don’t go through looking at every detail to find out what’s wrong with it. Just get it cleared out. Then we can tear it down.”

I am standing at the front door. A beam of yellow sun drops through the window and lights the dust motes that I have disturbed. They swirl over the broken floorboards like krill swirls away from the mouth of a whale. The curtain of white dust motes are the only light in the place. The rest of the house is dark. It smells like the chocolate-colored loam of a rotting jungle. Behind me past where he stands on the front porch the wind soughs through the trees.

My childhood home is a ruin.

The porch groans under his weight as he shifts from one foot to the other, “You know, you don’t have to put the new house in the same place.”

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