in the divorce, my mother got the shed.
a labor of half-hearted love, what was once a small space for the previous homeowner’s old photo albums is now an eyesore of a building in the backyard where stored items go to ruin. piled plywood, toilets, my father’s loveseat and chaise lounge, useless fiberglass.
it was supposed to be her future, a dream with which another man woke. from his pillow to no one but his own ear. with the expansion came citations. the city wanted it finished or gone. my mother’s apathy said he shouldn’t have touched that damned thing to begin with.
with her two hands, she clears it out and cleans it up. throws away rotting wood and clinging mold to cans of nonperishable goods. her elbows tear down walls to make a covered porch. she buys windows and remembers that she forgot there’s electricity.
she can work without wearing a mask now.