The Weight of the Key I Didn’t Earn

I live within a sanctuary of wood and glass, Where the hallway floor is polished, smooth, and deep. I never had to wonder if the roof would hold, Or if the walls would crumble while I sleep. I am a child of the "constant," the "secure," A quiet map where every line is sure. But what is a wall, if not a choice we make? And what is a door, if it only swings for one? I stood upon a patch of raw, red clay, And felt the heavy math of what must be done. I saw that a home isn’t built of cedar and pine, But of the blurred, brave border between yours and mine. I felt the hammer’s kick—a jagged, silver pulse— As we drove the nails into the heart of the frame. With every strike, I felt my own comfort shift, Knowing a house is a hollow thing without a name. We weren’t just measuring the height of the eaves, We were measuring the hope that a mother retrieves. For the geometry of mercy is a circle, not a square; It’s the way my own warmth is stolen by the cold, If I do not reach across the gap of the grass To help another story be proudly told. My own front key felt heavier in my vest, A weight of grace, a golden, sudden test. Tonight, the stars will watch two chimneys smoke, Rising like twin prayers into the velvet grey. And I will know, beneath my own white ceiling, That we built more than just a place for them to stay. We built a bridge out of the silence and the stone, So that no one has to call the dark their own.