i tell you this house was built in 1879. i tell you the man who built this house, a man with dirty blond hair swiped off to the side, a sturdy jaw and freckles still, loved a woman before, much earlier, 1867, and she died. she died young. she had long brown hair that twisted on her chest, matted and crude, so far from what it once was as she labored for breath. what she had was something that deteriorated her flesh, consumed her body. as she was living she was dying, even then as he sat beside her, spoke with her, held her hand, even then the structure of her was leaving.
you tell me how, after this, a man has faith to wake up in the morning, to brush his teeth, his hair, eat a piece of toast. you tell me how a man has faith after this to pick up a piece of wood, a hammer, a nail, to build a house. you tell me how he falls in love again.
you tell me how any one of us has faith.
and yet we do.
we have to, or what are we?
