I Remember

(I kinda wrote a scene, but here it is anyway.)

I remember the burnt down farmhouse in the field behind my mother's house that my brother and I would climb out to. It's captivating, and it's crumbling. All of its majesty is in the past, in its broken, brown bricks and in the root memory of plants growing between the cracks. The wind hits often when we wander out, casting a howling in our ears and the strong scent of burning in our noses, so fresh it's ad if it's happening now. The floor is now all grass and weeds, littered with bones--from what, we don't know. They just are. Pieces break and crumble in our hands like sand between our fingers, plants bend and break and crack beneath our heels. Sometimes, if the wind hits just right, we get a bit of grainy brick dust in our mouths, and it tastes like something old that we don't understand. Perhaps we're drawn to it, my brother and I, because it's like us; all that force trying to knock it down and it still has one wall standing. No one bothers to ask how it got that way, and no one cares, because we can make up our own past if we want to.