The House That Wes Built

Wesley Woods wore a solemn face as he ushered his wife, twin sons, and pet dog Rufus out onto the porch. Slinging the final duffle bag over his shoulder, he turned to lock the door one last time.

He’d practically built this house from the ground with his own bare hands. Solid brick. Piece by piece. It was Jo’s dream materialized. Before they married, he promised to build her the home she’d always imagined living in. A big red house with three stories; enough rooms for all the children and pets they fantasized about on hazy summer afternoons. A large green door that he would push open to carry her over the threshold. A cozy bedroom where he’d make love to her time and time again. A library (with peeling yellow paint that he’d never get around to redoing) where the couple would meet daily on the rustic red chaise until finally settling on the names Andy and Calvin. A little gray garage they would rush out of on a rainy morning, and drive back into the next night with two new bundles of joy. A quaint blue bathroom tub made just for filling up with suds while singing Six Little Ducks. A wide open living room for entertaining company, arguing, making up, and falling asleep on the couch as the television watches. A lovely nursery with cribs that would soon be replaced with bunk-beds; where little boys could play with toys, do homework or be sent away to for breaking mother’s vase. A giant yard where a tall oak would try to hold the tree house they’d build and rebuild together; where tulips and daffodils would grow, witnessing hours of tag, baseball, fetch with Rufus, and hide-and-go-seek. A tiny kitchen with a little window for calling out to the children when dinner was finally ready. Hardwood floors to mop up muddy boot and paw prints trailing from the backyard gate. A fancy dining room just a little longer than its table, under which Rufus hid to sneak bites from the evening meal.

Wesley would miss it all; the laughs, the cries, the joys, the pains, the peeling paint, and the muddy floors. But, most of all, he would miss the picket fence. That classic white all-American fence he built to assure himself and Jo that their sons were always safe and sound. They trusted it to protect the house from burglars, stray dogs, and God knows what else… If only it could protect the house from tornadoes.

As much as Wesley tried to hold out, as much as he watched, as much as he prayed, the weatherman still warned, and the evacuation notice was still in effect. Fumbling the keys from his worn jean pockets, he looked up to the sky once more as if something was going to change. As if the storm would suddenly stop. As if the clouds would miraculously clear.

Alas, the strong winds were eminent, tossing his hair into a wild mess-

As wild and messy as his heartbeats.

He saw the distant twisting funnel cloud-

As twisted as his stomach felt.

The raindrops touched his pale skin and he was slightly relieved because, this way, his boys wouldn’t see that their invincible father was shedding a few tears. Starting towards his worried wife and children inside the little blue car that was packed with as much luggage as it could hold, he tried to smile at them. He wanted to be strong and ease their fears. He tried to smile, but his lips were too heavy. He was carrying the weight of sixteen years worth of life that was about to be ripped apart in sixteen seconds. He climbed into the driver’s seat as quickly as his burdened soul would allow. He wanted to tell them that everything was going to be okay, but he wasn’t going to lie. Instead, he whispered goodbye to his pride and joy as he turned the key into the ignition.

A piece of him would die today.

Wesley would never be the same.