I linger, in rainy dusk, near a surviving Scentimental rose, fragrance of long gone front porch afternoons mixed with petrichor and wounded soil. The naked patch of earth in front of me looks small.
I recognized, underneath your pragmatic excuses for demolishing our childhood home, a score settled. That behind the camouflage of too old and too run down, a smoldering resentment that I was somehow the favored one.
And so, when it came to deciding the fate of the house that had cradled our family, you had eyes the color of jealousy. So different from my eyes of brown.