I remember the night you became a mason. I even helped. I poured the cement mix into a wheelbarrow and started crying. My tears mixed with the dusty powder and started to turn it into a gray paste. Then we started stirring it together. I would pull towards me, you would pull back. It became more and more violent until our hands were bloody and torn. We kept at it until everything was so mixed up you couldn’t tell the tears from the sweat from the blood from the original powder. It was just one big sticky mess.

We cast the bricks together. Layers and layers of dirt, rocks, and clay we dug up over a few rough weeks became the stones for your project.

I watched you build that wall between us, brick by brick. I watched each layer rise above the previous, and didn’t do a damn thing about it. I looked on in a mix of horror and amazement as I felt us growing more separate by the day. But soon, the division became a buffer of comfort. We were no longer vulnerable to each other, and I found serenity in that. Out of sight out of mind as the old saying goes.

I remember the night you became a mason. But staring at that wall you built became too much to bear. I am now trying to take it apart brick by brick, taking every action you made and reversing it. I just wish you would help me, because I don’t know how to deconstruct that which was made to be unbreakable.