I hold onto those memories: incomplete recollections, fleeting experiences, scribbles, smudges, scrapes cast aside.
Trophies and souvenirs to collect. Constant reminders of the past, gnawing away from the inside. The ones that remain through all the stages of your life.
I stand here, defining you. Through my big windows, doors, cracked walls.
I expand with your birth; twenty people squashed into one space, crammed and suffocating—a loving environment nevertheless.
I stand, half slanted, almost broken.
I watch you begin to piece together these memories, even the most atrocious ones. We remember them together fondly.