If I Could Build a House (A Poem for Bailey)
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If I could build a house
where pain couldn’t root
where disease couldn’t grow
where separation had no strength,
I would.
I would build it for you.
The roof would be firm in the storms
The walls would keep your body safe
The doors would say to pain,
“You are not welcome here.”
In the garden, togetherness would grow
and it would not stop
It would cover the house like ivy
It would fill the space between us
like a fragrance
like the glow of a candle
We would pick the togetherness like berries
We would serve it at our table
in big heaping bowls
We would store the extras in our cabinets
and it would spill out
everywhere. Everywhere.
With berry-stained hands,
we would laugh over the lovely mess
together. Together.
But togetherness doesn’t grow like that,
not here.
Here we are apart.
Here my tools are faulty
Here my materials too weak
I would build it for you,
but I cannot.
Here tornados rip off roofs like a lid
Here doors can’t keep out the pain and the hate
Here cancer grows where it was not planted
where it is not welcome
Here it takes what it was never given
And eats of the berries we so carefully collected
And smashes the space between us
This is not the house I would make for you.
If I could build another, I would
And yet, among these cracks and leaks
and these rusted hinges,
despite all the weak,
I notice something about our feet:
They are standing on something
strong.
I stomp and feel it firm beneath
Something built with hands not ours,
with tools not ours
Something built by Someone
who would build it
and could build it.
Someone who did not shut out pain
but welcomed it in,
who said to the winds and the disease
to the sin and the shame:
Come in my house instead.
Someone who surrendered his body
who gave up his home
who withheld not one cell
from the destruction we fear
And then from the ashy heap
he constructed this thing under our feet
and despite all the shaking
it hasn’t moved an inch.
Somehow in all the dying
the soil is still rich.
Somehow in all the separation
I can spot togetherness that grows
and cannot stop.
Darling, while much is lost
and much has been endured,
stomp and feel it firm beneath:
The foundation is unchanged.
No matter how our house shakes,
Nothing can stop this sprout of hope:
Of another home that our Builder is making
He is placing its foundation
In a place with no storms
Where you’ll be perfectly safe
Where pain cannot come
because it does not know the way
A place with a garden where togetherness grows
and it cannot stop
It will cover the house like ivy
It will fill the space between us
like a fragrance
like the glow of a candle
In that house, one day,
we will pick the togetherness like berries
We will serve it at our table
in big heaping bowls
We will store the extras in our cabinets
and it will spill out
everywhere. Everywhere.
With berry-stained hands,
we will laugh over the lovely mess
together. Together.
And our Builder will be there with us
(after all, it’s his feast)
and we’ll look at him in awe, saying,
“We can’t believe you made this!
We can’t believe you made space for us!”
He’ll stretch out his hands,
stained with blood and with berries,
draw us in close
and never let go.
Not ever. Not ever.
—
For Bailey.