Kate

Kate wasn't the first brick laid, and she was far from the last.

Fourth row up, eighth column to the left, on the northwest side. 

That was her place.

She loved it because it was her place, 

she loved it because she loved herself.

The Builder laid more bricks on top, 

they were so heavy. 

Kate didn't mind, 

because together they made a home for The Builder.

A home of light and warmth and love.

They were so happy.

And that was enough.

Real estate agents came knocking, telling The Builder what valuable property he was sitting on. 

He shooed them away-

once, twice, three times. But college for three kids is expensive,

and college for the kids

is especially expensive 

for a happy father

in the working class.

So he said, "Listen up, house."

And they listened-

even though they weren't a house,

they were individual bricks-

because they loved him.

He said, 

"You are going to be a hotel."

Kate was so excited, because it was The Builder's idea, 

and The Builder loved her.

Brick upon brick pounded down on Kate, day and night.

She didn't complain,

because the bricks on bottom had it worse, and she was the fourth row up.

So her pain didn't exist like theirs.

Not when The Builder stopped coming around.

Not when new men, in orange vests,

pissed their afternoon beers on her.

Not when white paint covered all the bricks up.

And the paint was so suffocating.

When it was finished, The Builder bought mutual funds.

He drove to Los Angeles, without looking back.

And his family turned out the way they were supposed to.

That was the last time Kate was happy.

Because the golf courses in Orange County were always light and warm,

and love never existed anyway.

So she gave him the best she could.

Even if in the end, she was just another brick

in the fourth row
eighth column

northwest side.

And The Builder never needed, noticed or knew 

Kate from the Northwest side.

Not really.

Decades later, the hotel wasn't a popular vacation spot,

but the bricks were still just as heavy on top of her.

She finally groaned.

And the seventh row told her all about how bad the bottom had it

and even though they didn't say anything, you could tell this made them feel better 

for a moment,

and you could tell they didn't like Kate for groaning.

Years later

the hotel was vacant

and a brick on the fifteenth row groaned.

So Kate told him how lucky he was.

And you could tell Kate disliked him

for groaning

from all the way up there.

A few cracks

and a long

long

long

 silence later,

Kate crumbled.

Every brick,

in an eighth column,

on the northwest side,

fell down one meaningless row.

But nobody can tell me

if bricks go to heaven.

And I don't know if it matters anyway.