The House Was Never Meant to Shine Like This
by Jaci Turner
I walk through rooms I’ve never been in,
but I know them.
I know the hush of the walls,
the portraits that watch
with the slow patience of history,
the way light falls differently
on places meant for service
instead of spectacle.
But now —
there is gold where there should be oak.
Gleam where there should be grace.
A mirror held up not to the people,
but to the man who believes
his reflection is the nation.
I want to ask him,
quietly,
the way one asks a child who has broken something sacred:
Nov 1, 2025 14:26Do you think this makes you king?
Do you think the mother
counting the cost of bread in the aisle
will look up at her phone
and whisper —
“Oh, look at him.
He is shining for us.”
Do you think the fathers
who have set aside their own hungers
to feed small mouths
will say —
“He has earned his gold”?
No.
There is a kind of wealth
that makes a room warmer
because it is shared.
There is another
that makes the air heavy
because it demands to be seen.
And I am standing in these halls,
even from far away,
and I feel the weight of the second one.
This house was built
for the people.
The humble.
The tired.
The hopeful.
The broken.
The rebuilding.
Not for the man who wants the world
to know his hands have touched gold.
Let the walls remember us.
Let them remember the ones
who still know the difference
between honor
and glitter.
