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Suppose I tell you about holes. The one in the wall, hiding in the hallway behind the linen closet. Suppose I tell you that slamming doors in rage can break walls, and build them. Suppose I told you I was right, but I got punished for that hole and she never apologized.

Suppose I tell you about the new back porch, the one that was built because I fell through a gap in the rotting wood, all the way up to my thigh, my foot dangling desperately from below. Suppose I could show you the colors of those bruises, do you think you could imagine the pain?

Suppose I tell you about floors. The one in the kitchen that the kids redid with stick-on tiles from Pergament. That it cost us $70 dollars and two days of work, that it was a surprise for Mum, and that she was thrilled with it. The floor in the garage, cement and cool and spidery. The carpet on the floors, light brown in every single room.

Suppose I tell you about doors, the bedroom that I shared and never locked, the bathroom that was the only place for silence? Suppose I told you of another hole I made, kicking the door in frustration, would you have any idea of where it is?

I know this is not what you want to hear. Do you want to know about words? Suppose I told you only the loud ones. Suppose I told you only the soft ones. Suppose it were all a lie.

One day I will buy paint and splash colors into every room of that house. The house we left behind in another country was old, fantastic, falling apart from family use. The house we live in now still has no character. Ten years. Sterile.

Suppose I tell you the secrets I know about the house I live in, and the other one I grew up in. Suppose I told you everything, would I feel any better? Would you understand?

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