THE SCULPTOR
Most of you have homes.
Family, roots, anchors.
I had one.
My mother.
Sister moved out at fifteen.
Aunt helped sometimes.
Mother died
when I was eighteen.
Home died with her.
Five years after…
drugs.
More years…
alcohol.
Letting her down.
Then I became sculptor.
Started building.
Not for me…
never for me.
First sculptures:
monuments to her memory.
Not letting Mum down
posthumously.
Then commissions arrived.
Wife who needed
provider, security, servant.
Kid who needed
father, stability, home.
I sculpted
what they required.
Better home than most.
Better job than most.
All of it built
by my hands.
You look at what I made
and think:
impressive work.
But I'm still homeless.
Fifty now.
A lifetime of building
homes for others.
Never shake the feeling…
one paycheque from the street.
Everything I sculpted
belongs to someone else.
A lifetime of commissions.
Never my own work.
- UpsilonA