The nights are better, now that we have had rain. No one picked up the trash, so the garbage bags, cans and plastics, still sit underneath tree branches, wet and silky. The house is still too big, foreign to our senses. Hearing hefty raindrops, caressing the rooftop against wood surprises us. We stop what we are doing to hear thunder and admire our new home. My sister pours coffee into a striped mug, beaming under the kitchen lights, unafraid of the storm that delves our walls.
The nights are better, now that we are filled. The stairs are still an effort, and the floor is cold and unfurnished, stale and rugged. My feet agonize as I make my way over to the bed, where I find a new kind of warmth, pleasing after a long time. I role on my side, listen to what is now the soundtrack of my sleep, and hope to fall, deep down.
The nights are better.
Now that we are.