It’s on a side street—
half a façade wrapped in Tyvek paper
embedded in the frozen ground
of my new neighborhood,
empty A-Frame against gray sky.

Is this the door?
Or the foyer wall I am stepping through,
a screw and washer kicked
tinkling into the dirt?

I remember when you sat on my lap
and designed a house for us in the SIMS
while I perched my chin on your shoulder,
smelled your hair, whispered wallpaper colors,
pointed out the light fixtures we would or
would not have
depending on who won the argument

I can’t help imagining your frown
at the dirty snow I track
across this plywood expanse of
perhaps a living room
(Shoes were always to be removed
upon entering, you had said.)
as though your very soul
flickered in the floorboards of this
maybe kitchen with a promise of windows
by the staircase
to the landing that isn’t.

This is where the construction stopped,
where we lay down our tools,
where we lay down our bodies
to cry and wonder
on a foundation that had required
all we could muster.

I did love that layout.
It would have put the children’s bedroom
right about there,
hovering above my head
like a soap bubble by the pin
oak’s pointing finger.