9 May 2026
She built a house from her father's silence
and a stack of overdue letters,
and she lived in it well.
She built a life from what was left
after the flood, after the winter,
after the fire that nobody talked about.
Bricklayer's daughter,
stone in her hands.
Bricklayer's daughter,
learned where she stands.
Nothing she built was built to fall.
Nothing she lost was lost at all.
She kept a photograph above the mantle —
her father with his sleeves rolled up,
staring at something off to the left.
She never knew what he was looking at.
She spent forty years looking that way too.
A note from the lyricist
For my grandmother, who never complained about anything, ever.
