Straw Houses

 

I build with what I have. Not stone, not brick, only straw.

It bends in my hands, slips through my fingers, leans under the weight of too much silence. Still, I tie it tighter, again and again, hoping it will be enough.

They warned me of the wolf. One breath, and everything would scatter.

So I stayed ready, listening for his arrival, patching holes no one else noticed, standing guard so no one else had to.

But the wolf never came.

And still the house stands— though fragile; though aching; though held together only by my hands.

And in the quiet, I wonder— if no one else walks through the door, if no one else reaches for the walls, was it ever really a home?

The straw waits. I wait. 

Not knowing if the weight will break, not knowing if the breath will come, not knowing if I should keep holding— or let it fall.