The Cinder Blocks Remember,” Donny Winter

Donny Winter

Fingerprints are fossils on countertops and the thermostat has forgotten its function— each room sits preserved like abandoned museum exhibits and the walls creak as they waken with my footfalls. The house stirs back, but strains to breathe.

My father’s voice lingers in the background and speaks to the beat of these dry 1960 beams. I take out my phone to capture this space and smile at its futuristic glow that’s out of place— but I must record to remember.

I wonder if these walls recognize me; I’ve grown up and all perspectives have changed— tables have shrunk and the ceiling fan’s strings tickle my forehead like willow branches combing across a late-summer yard.

At first, I’m a time-traveler, but so much is the same. I’m thirteen and each window is a matte-painting framing every familiar view: a field rolls toward an amber sunset, the jack pine waves hello in the kitchen, and the woods stretch behind.

Yes, grandma’s house is cold now— but underneath rotted composite, a desperate layer of pastel blue, and a coat of forgotten pink, these cinder blocks still remember.