What Stays

At my parents' house,

the brick is still there,

wrapped in duct tape,

the silver peeling back,

gray underneath,

holding the bedroom door open

against the swelling,

against the summer

that warps wood,

that makes things swell

beyond their intended size.

They don't see it anymore.

I asked why it was there,

and my mother said,

"Oh, that. The door sticks."

Like she hadn't even looked at it

in years,

like it had become part of the wall,

like the brick wrapped in failing tape

was just something that existed

the way dust exists,

the way air exists,

unexamined and permanent.

But someone put that brick there.

Someone decided it needed to stay.

Now it's holding the door open

like a placeholder,

like a promise

that something

will keep things from closing,

that something temporary

can become forever,

that if you just leave a brick there,

with duct tape coming off,

silver turning gray,

the door will stay open

and the swelling won't matter,

and summer won't change anything.

I wanted to remove it.

I didn't.

Let it stay.

Let them keep not seeing it.

Some things become invisible

because they work,

because they do exactly what they're supposed to do,

and we stop thanking them

and start pretending

they were never there at all.