Empty Notebook

The rains poured down harder and harder, each drop forcefully expelling the dirt that lay where it landed, making a violent mud.

I opened the door, finally leaving the home I had worked so hard to bring together, which was once again falling apart. Paint and sandpaper, discussion and empathy, banana bread and coffee can only do so much. The door, though recently replaced, no longer closed by itself. I hesitated to close it, knowing I no longer had keys, but I knew it was time. I carefully turned the knob and replaced the door, quietly protecting the people inside. People who had no idea how many spirits had been broken in their house. People who would never know the violent drunks, coked out strangers, hostile law enforcement officials, and knife owners who had roamed the halls of this place they call home. And that was the point, right? Through everything I'd done for the house, my hope had always been that it would become a place where people could live peacefully, and call home.

I turned away. As I watched my jeans become spotted with rainwater, I walked down the broken concrete steps one last time. I looked back at the house. There was new graffiti on the door. I could see the pools of rainwater next to the house seep into the window wells of the basement. Had anything changed?

The sidewalk was covered with deep puddles of water, flanked by mud puddles with blades of grass peeking out of the piles. I took off my sandals. It was going to be a long walk home.