Isabella Rodrigues
Season of the Caterpillars or the Story of a Breaking House The House isn’t broken, not exactly. It just rests on the edge, like a glass of water that’s filled too much and another drop might cause a flood. It was built by my grandfather, who died before the first window frame peeled. Then it was my grandmother’s, who didn’t like the empty halls and the creaks of the cabinets. Then it was my father’s, who soon liked someone else’s house better. Finally, it was my Mother’s. Swipes of wet around her eyes, she pointed her finger at the large white square. “Don’t try anything. I’m staying.” Because there was nowhere else to go. I don’t remember much of the breaking as a child. At ten, a window shutter flew down on my head, but I never thought much about it. When I started realizing, I suppose I was grown. Stove fires, light bulbs bursting, a splintered floor, floods in the basement, storms picking at the roof with their violent fingers, and a bathtub that never drains completely. Resilient in everything she does, my Mother pushed back. Spent weekends fixing the
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