I can recall everything of that old building; the bare particle board walls, the beautiful Rain Dragon a friend of ours painted that I was born under, the hole in the floor my mother burned from our old wood fire heater, the piles and piles of things my parents hoarded that I would climb across to get to the bed.
We never put up insulation, we never built the cinder block extension on the back like my sister had always planned, we never really finished any of the buildings we started.
It was in this unfinished house that most of my earliest memories and dreams occurred.
I am laying on my back, looking up at my tiny, wrinkled hands.
A feeling of anger overtakes me, because my hands look like those of an ape.
Hating the way my hands looked, I would keep my fingers straight as often as possible.
Like so many other events, I can no longer recall if this was a true memory or a vivid dream.
All through my early childhood, I would have bouts of self-judgement such as this.