White plaster. Green lawn. A swing that never stayed still. Chalk dust on the steps, summer stuck in the windowsill. Cut grass, clean curtains, laughter leaking through the screen. A house that looked like promise because we were too young to read. It holds. It holds. It holds. Until it shifts. At first it’s nothing. A thin crack by the frame. Paint that starts to lift where the rain keeps its name. A door that needs a shoulder. A stair that learns to speak. “Old house,” someone says— like age is the whole truth. It holds. It holds. It holds. Until it shifts. Boards over broken windows. A yard gone hard and thin. Mold behind the wardrobe, where the air forgot to live. The wallpaper peels like skin. The ceiling learns to bow. And every room gets quieter without anyone saying how. A house doesn’t fall with sirens. It settles. It accepts. It learns to carry weather and call it “normal” next. You stop opening certain doors. You stop looking up at night. You keep the front presentable. You learn what “fine” can hide. It holds. It holds. It holds. Until it shifts. I know this structure. I wear it.
