The Pink House Dreamed Me Back

There is a house I’ve never seen—

yet I live in it, twice reborn.

Its walls are blush and breathing,

its roof hums with secrets I almost remember.

My daughters return

through doors that never locked,

sharing laughter in a room too small for silence

but just wide enough for forgiveness.

My eldest floats in still water,

a queen in her own ritual,

bathing in the hush between

what was broken and what heals in solitude.

Each room breathes its own air—

cool, controlled,

like the way we survive love

without letting it burn us whole.

And my mother stirs the house with scent—

not presence, not absence—

just the echo of hands that know how to feed

without asking for thanks.

I nap,

and still I walk through halls

that memory has not claimed—

only longing.

Twice I dreamed it.

Twice it held me.

And now I wonder—

did I make the house,

or did it make me?