Ly Faulk

The ceiling is falling in, one beam at a time. I sit and drink my morning espresso and watch as boards fall one by one onto the carpet. Dodging a board, I go to take a sip and notice insulation floating in my drink. I sigh and pour it out into the sink, watching my step because of all the wood on the floor. It’s getting light out, the sun is almost over the horizon. I’ve been an early riser ever since perimenopause hit. Outside, the birds are just beginning to wake up and begin their morning song. Another board hits the floor. There are very few left now. I peer up into the attic, grateful that I never stashed anything up there. The bones of the house stare back at me. I don’t blame the house for falling apart. We all do that from time to time. I open a window and let the cool morning breeze fill the room. The honeysuckle just outside the front door will be in bloom soon. A board from the attic falls, and with it, a handful of ceiling tiles. A slice of the gray morning sky peeks in through the hole. I sit down among the debris littering my kitchen/dining room/living room/open floor design. Another beam from the attic hits. The hole begins to widen. I lay on my back under the hole and let the boards rain down around me. The sky is beginning to turn pink and gold. As my home caves in, I watch the day begin.