Aged and fragile, I creep up the stairs
of this old house.
I navigate its narrow corridors and
pick at cobwebs along the windowsills.
There are pictures on the walls--
black and white still frames of picnics and piñatas,
smiles and surprises--
but their frames are cracked,
dividing the photos into tiny, fractured memories.
Though the paint is peeling, the moldings are fresh--
a vain attempt to try to preserve something once cared for.
I’m trying to admire the antiquity, the architecture,
but the floorboards creak and groan,
and with each step forward
I’m afraid I’m going to fall through.
I can’t step anywhere in this damn house
without destroying something beautiful.
