Springtime in a Place Too Simple to Call Home

I found myself back here, the house is the same, the air inside it the same — is it air we should be breathing? Of course, that’s a silly question. Here’s another silly question — is the ground firm enough to stand on? I know it is, I’m standing on it now, but I never step too hard in fear of what might give. Tile gives way to carpet, and I am in my Room, and all is well. The Lamp is on by my bed, rainwater is seeping under the door, but I know I’m safe. It won’t flood here, the Lamplight makes sure of that. It casts a heavy, warm, dusk-like spell, saying, “You need not go any further, you are here, and that is enough.” The air, the light was so familiar in there I almost believed it. I almost forgot what they told me. That the house’s foundation was crumbling (termites, what else?), and there was work to be done. That this place, that some of us still call home, could crumble, fall, crumble, fall off its perch on the hill into the canyon below.

The work must be done, and it will be done, but if this pocket of ancient air (and the house with it) did tumble, what will survive? Will the Lamp by the bed keep on burning? Will its voice, saying, “Remember me, remember me,” ever hit the ground? Or will it keep on speaking — suspended — to a Traveler who is only passing through?