Archaeology of Home

The floorboards remember every step, every hesitation— dust motes drift through the afternoon like sediment settling into the crevices of what was.

I find a button in the corner, blue enamel worn smooth, and cannot recall which coat or which season claimed it.

The walls are palimpsests, layer upon layer of paint— cream, then sage, then white again, as if we were searching for something we knew lived beneath.

In the basement, boxes labeled only with dates, their contents already surrendered to forgetting. I open one. Photographs. The faces are strangers now, though I was there, capturing the moment I no longer recognize.

The house breathes differently in winter, its joints tighten, it settles into itself. I listen for what it might confess, some secret kept in the architecture. But the silence is patient, absolute— it will tell me nothing. It will take everything.