The Mayflower building, my home for the past 4 years, creaks in protest at my steps, leaks its worries and tears, calls quietly in the late hours to lost tenants, to sleeping guests, to missing footsteps of small children and loud song.
The building holds us both, me and a little black cat, in shaking arms -- we fight, we call, we complain, we cry.
The wooden floors ache with me, I bend them, break them, raze them in a fury of clean to rid 80 years of others from my presence but they linger, and I linger and I leave bits of myself over every surface and into the pores of the walls and into the cracks between the floorboards and dust myself into the dark shadows of the past.
The Mayflower echoes the sounds of the highway, tied to shaking foundations ironically or aptly named Independence.
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