I grew up in a house that was never not under construction: a small house on a jagged plot of land in western North Carolina, a valley that had been a sprawling farm till someone raised it up and dropped it, and it shattered, and my parents’ house occupies one of those shards.
There were never any workmen. There were never any contracts signed. We never relocated to motel rooms. We did the work ourselves, hauling barrowsful of soil from the crawlspace, mixing grout and laying tile, heaving the enormous, barrel-chested water heater from one bedroom to another, even cathedral'ing the living room ceiling ourselves.
Sometimes, there was a window where there shouldn't be a window. Sometimes, a door yawned where there shouldn't be a door. All year round, pale plastic flapped over apertures like translucent wings, or flags.
One winter, rot ate through the plywood that underlaid the bathroom's...
