Before, we lived a life of dirt, of disorder, of necessity. Dust filled our lungs instead of air. We were ignorant of soap and water’s rituals, how to bathe work’s grime away. We knew nothing of meals made with love. Cobwebs sewed our house together.
We were grateful at first, after she arrived; grateful for her warmth and songs.
But now that she’s gone, we’re left staring at the blisters on our scrubbed palms. We sleep with aching stomachs, full of loveless food. Without cobwebs, our home will surely collapse.
We wish she’d wake up.
No, we wish she’d never come.