Wrap it in Words

Brick by brick, I build this wall.

The other three walls tower above me already; dusty red and implacable. Their making was not hard; the work came easily at first. But it was slow, for I would leave the task time and time again and become distracted by other pursuits - building a chair, a crib, a home. But their cement was only made of love and they soon fell down to nothing and were swept away when the wind came strong from the west.

These walls will be stronger. I have made them so, crafted every brick with tears and mixed the cement with blood. I near completion.

Inside I have placed the things that must be locked away. Your sweat-smell, but not your fists. A scent of spring, but not the rains. The pitter-patter of feet, but not the screech of brakes. These things will live here, in the place I have made for them.

When this fourth wall is done, they will be safe from the scythes of memory; they will live on in their suspended moments. And I will not be able to touch them. This is best.

My back aches and the sweat stings my eyes, but the work must go on. My nails have long ago been worn away to nothing, not my fingertips are bloody and broken. But no matter. I am close to the end of bricks, the end of days.