It's the year 2027 and our house is crumbling beneath our fingertips. The kids are stomping on the floor again and I'm afraid the beams will crack beneath our feet. I swore I would never let anybody understand what it means to be from a broken home because I still struggle to remember a time when my father wasn't putting mortar in between our family, separating us like bricks. It's been years, and sometimes I still have to call my sister so I know that she's not just part of a dream that I wake up from, thinking it's real. I never understood the word family until they were gone and maybe that's why I've started letting go of things before they have the chance to leave themselves. Sometimes I think that my grandparents should have named my father after the way that his footsteps still echo even after he's gone. I remember a wall covered in holes from where my father's fist kissed it all so gently. I can only think that wall is what my heart might look like, but lately I've had trouble finding my pulse. I keep having this dream where the doctors are standing over me screaming that I'm empty, but I wake up before they're able to fill me up again or put something good inside of me. Maybe my ribs are still trying to hold onto something that isn't even there anymore and maybe my mother still keeps my baby shoes for the same reason.