Better Homes

She lives in a beautiful house.
Brought to life from the magazine images,
where nobody actually lives and they just take pictures.

All sculpted chrome, embellished tile, marble, slate and colored glass.

Granite countertops.

The monochrome color scheme was intentional.
Beige and creams make the spaces clean and large
and brighter.

Every corner has a tale of woe. The carpenter started this here, but never came back to finish it there. The tub leaked through the closet here, the curtains were mismeasured over there.

And for all its hard fought renovation, there is
an unmistakable spirit of despair, of bottomless sorrow
dwelling there.

It was cold. Light bounced, never trapped, and I didn't warm up our entire stay. I mourned for all that has been lost.

I dreamt the first night that my man had died and left our life as hers has, not dead, but gone just the same.

No tribute or shred of any evidence can be found that he was ever there. Just the quiet loneliness and the countless photographs taken by his hand.

It is a beautiful house. A better home? Not today. Perfect like the pictures, where no one ever really lives. The end result of a very poor trade.