The Weight & the Wind

I was born with the hands of a builder—

knuckles calloused before I knew my name,

stacking responsibility like bricks,

mortar packed tight between moments,

sealing every crack before anyone noticed.

 

My house? Unshakable.

Steel-boned, stormproof,

rafters thick with expectation,

hallways humming with the quiet labor

of a man who never lets the wiring fray.

 

Because I see the fault lines before they break.

I see the dominos shudder before they lean.

I see the disaster that could be,

so I step in before it is.

 

I hold the walls up.

I keep the peace.

I play the game.

And I tell myself,

this is just what it means

to be ahead of the avalanche.

 

But some days—

the wind presses its ribs against the glass,

breathes through the keyholes,

whispers in the language of rustling leaves:

 

“You were not made for walls alone.”

 

And I wonder—

if I let go,

if I unclench these hands,

if I let the house settle in its own weight,

 

Would the foundation split?

Would the roof cave in?

Or would I finally, finally

feel the air move through my lungs?

 

I step back, just an inch.

A picture frame tilts.

A conversation wobbles.

No catastrophe.

Just imperfection, breathing.

 

Outside, the world does what it always does—

bleeds light through cracked clouds,

lets the river carve its own ribs into the earth,

spills orange poppies across forgotten roadsides,

sings,

and forgets its own song,

never asking permission to bloom.

 

What if I could live like that?

 

Not as the architect.

Not as the weight-bearing beam.

But as the current itself,

twisting toward wonder

without a blueprint?

 

What if the point was never

to hold it all together,

but to let something ancient

and caged

break open inside me?

 

And what if, when I do,

I don’t fall—

I fly.