You built a house made of cherry wood. The beams stood tall, parallel with the ceiling. The creaking in the floorboards to reminding you it’s alive. Etched lines in every door frame with initials. Handprints in cement in the back patio. Tonight I drove past the woodland and smelled the burn. The smoke never left. The sweetness in the air melts into the stillness and will stay there forever. You’re okay and that’s what counts. You’ve just got alot of burning memories and a pile of ashes.