If I had more time I would build it. Another floor, a winding circle of staircase to connect them all. I'd get a bathtub with clawed feet and a railing to pull myself up by. I'd have a room with a desk built into the wall and I would become a farmer-poet. A window to see the hills with their frost-heaved curves.
Since it happened, I have felt a calmness in the pit of my stomach. It was a relief. His skull was spongiform, a thin membrane under my hands.
I cover the floor of his bedroom with plastic sheets. He was useless anyway, no good with tools. They'd clatter out of his hands and tumble down hillsides. Ladders couldn't bear his weight. His thin body was in no shape for work. I pry his jaws apart and insert the thin, sharp blade of a knife.
My grandfather was Norwegian; he had a winding staircase connecting the floors of his house. When I was seven I fell all the way down the stairs and only hit my head once. He said that was lucky, and so after he pressed a cold spoon against the welted bump he asked me who was going to win the World Cup. I guessed Italy. Two hours later, Diego Maradona pressed a black and white kiss against his curved, silver bladder, his white shorts smeared with dirt.
"Good thing I didn't bet money," my grandfather said. After that he rang a bell if the phone was for me, just to avoid speaking.
There isn't time now. No floor, no staircase. I wrap the plastic around his prone body. Even now, the shape is awkward, ugly. He was useless anyway.