upkeep, reprise

I had big aspirations for our house. Do you remember? It was run down, but I saw such potential in it. I told you we'd fix it up, make it beautiful, make it the best house we could possibly have. You told me it was too big, there was too much to do. I said that with the two of us, we could make it work, and you smiled.

I began our great work and you helped at first--cleaning up dust, getting rid of old furniture that was beyond repair. I thought we were making a lot of progress, and said we'd be done in no time. You said we'd never make it past the entry chambers, the dusting and the furniture. I said to just be patient, it would take time, but we could do it together. You and I. You smiled.

You took ill--from the dust and mold, maybe--and I did some of the cleaning on my own. I promised I'd do what I could but I needed you to get better. I needed you to help. This was too much for me to do on my own. You said you didn't think you'd get better and I said I was sure you would--and then you smiled.

You started telling me it was no use, the project was too ambitious, you preferred the house in its old, dilapidated state. Your health was still faltering--headache, fever, coughing--and I told you it was better for you if we fixed it up. You smiled and said it had more character the way it was, and the project was still too big. I kept working but never seemed to get anything done.

I tried to fix our room, at least, so maybe your health would clear up, but you were angry--so I was angry, and we shouted at each other and said things we both ended up regretting, and I fled the house, found somewhere else, swore never to come back. And I thought of your smile, and worried I never quite understood.