My Tower

I woke up in tears.

I thought I was tending to a tall, strong, fortress. I felt its presence looming over me. I could glance back, and view it when I wanted.

During the construction, I visited the site when I felt the need. It grew and grew, slender, with height and beauty. My castle, if you will.

I was in the opinion that it was strong, its walls were fortified. Of course, as all are, I was worried of vandalism. So, I gated my structure. Sometimes with wire or picket fences, but sometimes with roses. Delicate body guards, with hidden stings.

For years this colossal tower stood, growing outwardly all the while.

I added more fencing, some sections with gates, and unbolted certain latches.

It was strong. I had held it together. It was mine. And, I was proud of it. I loved it.

However, there was a flaw. All the while I thought the construction was composed of cement and steel bars. In reality, behind the ever rising walls and lovely façade, which I had created and the building wore without fuss, the interior was crumbling away.

Perhaps it began with a bruised section the size of a pearl. A round fragment, perhaps it ached, but soon, like particles in a glass, it emptied.

Blind to the flaws, I kept adding decorations. My time, my heart, my life became this tower. It sat always in my thoughts. I was drawn to visit, to marvel, to protect and cherish it. Regardless of the season, it held a special majesty. I’d lay my hand on the surface after slipping past all my devices of security.

A few times, I sensed an echo within. The weight of my touch sounding empty below the skin. Concerned, I would then look up, and view my tower of Babel reaching new heights. Limitless. Comforted, I would go live again.

The pearl sized disintegration grew. As an oyster quietly guards it’s rare and lovely treasure, so was the destruction mounting within my tower without doors. Slowly, the sands within in fell away. Days, weeks, years, all swept past, stealing with them pieces from inside the walls. One December day, it finally stood, completely hollow.

I approached. Following my well worn path, I sang a memorized song. My trusty key was in my pocket, and there stood the fence I had myself had put up. The lock cachunked open, the sound weighty and violent. Strange. I passed through.

Through seasons of ice, heat, oceans, and bliss my building had not only stayed, but grown. Until this day. Imagine my surprise, when all the beauty and familiarity fell before my eyes.

My castle, my fortress, rendered soundlessly to a pile of dust.

I need not inform you of what dust can and cannot do. Its actions, as you know, are limited. It was once composed of living matter. It is the essence of a corpse. Either the end of death or the start. But here were my years, my happiness, and my love, all in a heap. Mingled with earth. The barriers were now silent guards protecting an empty clearing.

I stood in horror as it fell. In shock as I stared into the emptiness. The heavens looked hollow. My existence felt off, felt wrong. As if I had rolled out of bed and stood slapping the unyielding air in vain because someone had removed my brass alarm clock from its usual place. A step in a staircase missed in the night.

What was, no longer is.

I collapsed in the center of the dust. Weeping, and clutching at whatever remains were in reach. Muddied, I sobbed as it all ran effortlessly through my gripping fingers.

Murderous, I sought out a reason. Surely the cause was near, was evident. I wanted revenge. But my thunderous tantrum produced as many rewards, as in the same manner that my ornate fences provided protection. Energy exhausted in vain.

I built mud castles. Delirious, I built them beside my known place. Twigs, stones, bark. I arranged them frantically. Eager to restore what once stood glorious.

They faded with each passing storm.

I still remember what the original felt like, what it looked it. I can even trace my well known paths. I can sing my old walking songs. I can meander up and down in my mind the way home to my building. But, no matter how vivid the dreams, how masterfully preserved the memory, the site still stands a grave. A disaster zone.

In all honesty, I only visit on occasion. People unknowingly drag me to it, on occasion. Those moments shock almost as much as the time I saw it fall. Scars tend to carry the initial pain of the injury. The body knows. The cells remember.