Building Blocks (Poem)

You said you’d stay, so I built a home
I stopped holding my breath, waiting for the door to slam 
I unpacked all the boxes of trauma I would rather hide in the attic
I laid down the oven mittens, which protected me from being burned 
I painted the walls a seagreen, a color that reminds me of you 
I washed up the dirty laundry that I had hidden under the bed 
I sprayed a raindrop scent all over the pillows 
And put homemade cookies in the oven  
I hope it smells like a love that’s familiar 
You said you’d stay, so I memorized your footsteps 
How they got heavier when you were deep in thought 
The creak in the hallway that connected to the kitchen 
You never could sneak a second helping (but I let you anyway) 
I started buying used books because you said it was loved (I started looking at myself this way) 
I started making the bed in the morning, so life felt more together when you couldn’t be there
You said you’d stay, so I introduced you to Beary and my Grandpa  
I leave the light on for when you are out late
I fill a cup of water up for you to wake up to in the middle of the night
I overstock on honey and lemon for when a cold hits you hard
I memorized your silence and laughter and woven them into the curtains that hang 
I bought mugs that fit your hands, It wasn’t hard; yours are only slightly bigger than mine
You said you’d stay, so I made room in the closet 
And space in the stories for you, and all the knooks and crannies of my heart 
I’ll see you step on each floor tile because you’ve always been superstitious 
I hum to the radio and you tell me that I must have been hidden in your rib in our Genesis 
That I belong under your wing for protection and close to your heart 
I built the walls out of scripture, you always were firm that we needed a firm foundation 
The picture frames of love, some misplaced, some broken, and in the wrong spot, are still love
I built windows out of my heart (you always were able to see right through me) 
You said you’d stay, so I built a home