After

"Think about our mom and dad," he says, coughing through the dirt, throwing down large objects from the shelves. Mud and disgust fill the air, the others can be seen from the crack in the doorway. "Think about how they suffered." Voice rough and wet, a small green object gets tossed at me. I catch it in my cut hands, shivering. "You think about Uncle Todd," a metal can clashes at my chest, footsteps kicking up small clouds of grime under steel toed boots. He climbed down and everything feels frozen, only his eyes glowing in the dim light, his lips quivering and breathing rough. "Think about the life we used to love. That old rustic bench that mom made, ugly as hell," he whispers, spitting off to the side before facing me again. "About our old ass neighbors who would sit on the porch every damn morning to read the paper." There's a deep sense of empty. A clench of soreness and longing rising through the veins of my throat. Silence for a short moment, and I can hear the hum of Roosevelt making what's left of our canned pears. Raspy and low. "You take these, and you burn that building to the ground."