She stands at the street corner,
surrounded by magnolia trees and iron gates,
draped with ivy like a stone goddess.
Though she cannot move,
she can see everything.
Every nail that was placed in her,
meant someone felt like they’d come home.
Every stripe of color
meant she was reimagined as someone’s own.
She saw the Stovalls raise their children
in the only way they knew how—
one going right,
one going left,
and one without any direction at all.
Then there were the Harviells,
who had no children of their own,
but little birds of a different feather.
They had three cats—
one for each of the birds.
There were other families who came and went,
but it was during the reign of the last family,
in which she was invaded,
and saw from every room,
the wiping out of future generations.
Haunted, she was left to crumble,
for no one wanted to live in her anymore.
Her only solace were the mischievous children
who came to play in what had once been
the sacred spaces of others;
the teenagers who came to play
Russian Roulette with biology,
until the day she was deconstructed,
and only the memory of her lived on
in the children who had lived.