Houses

I build my houses out of various mediums.
Sometimes I carve out decorative pieces of wood. Calloused hands chopping pieces. Chopping until it's the right size. I slowly shave off slivers. Sanding until it's smooth. Nailing together just the right pieces, so they fit perfectly.
Sometime I wet sand. Two buckets of water for every bucket of sand. Measured out to the perfect amount where sand can stick. I mold it in my hands, it slowly gaining shape and structure in my fingertips. I flatten out the ceilings and floors, and dig out pools and tubs.
Sometimes I build card houses. Bending them ever-so-slightly, I lean them up against each other. Patience. Patience. Patience. I steady my hands and stack the cards--single numbers on the bottom, royalties on top. I imagine Yurtle the Turtle looking down on the turtles below him trapped in mud, or the Tower of Babel growing taller and taller.
Sometimes I stack Lincoln Logs. Previously indented, no work needed. I stack them in order, creating a square of protection. Simple. Sturdy. Common. It makes me feel organized and clean. This house is easy.

I always watch as they fall. Wood being set on fire. Waves crashing over my sand castle. A breeze blowing the kings and queens off their thrones to be beside the mere commoners on the ground. Logs moved to be out of place--having no order or support.
There's nothing I can do to stop the destruction. My walls are tumbling down. My houses falling open.
I'm exposed.