The house looms large on the river bank. I pass by it every day. One side is gone, creating a cross section of the structure. Pride and sweat went into the production of this thing—you can smell the saltiness when it rains. All that stands now is lumber and stone; they say giants used to live here. The concrete of my city seems cold and stark next to the deep brown bricks used to build the house on the river.

Feet sank into the wet ground by the river. Someone bent down quickly, the wind whistling in her ears from moving too fast; she scooped up some of the ground, a mixture of mud, grass, roots and worms. She put it in the basket on her back and moved to gather more of the deep brown earth. She brought her full basket and emptied it next to her husband who sat cleaning the mud. He pulled out every blade of grass, every pale wrinkled root, every squirming worm. The worms were returned to the hills but they kept the grass and roots too dry to use as fire starters.

Three days of gathering and cleaning. Then the two sat down together and began shaping the cold clean mud into bricks. Three days they sat, mud permanently housed underneath their fingernails, dried mud streaked across their face from where they wiped away sweat, which made the mud stickier. They worked through the day, through the darkness; they only stopped when the moon took over from the sun in the blank sky. They woke with the first rays of daylight and continued working.

When all the bricks had been formed, the two laid them out in flats, 20 bricks by 20 bricks. Then they took the dried roots and grass and built a blazing fire around the flat spreads of bricks. They had many fires so the bricks would harden at the same time.

The house looms large on the river bank. I pass by it every day. One side is gone, creating a cross section of the structure. Pride and sweat went into the production of this thing—you can smell the saltiness when it rains. All that stands now is lumber and stone; they say giants used to live here. The concrete of my city seems cold and stark next to the deep brown bricks used to build the house on the river.

Feet sank into the wet ground by the river. Someone bent down quickly, the wind whistling in her ears from moving too fast; she scooped up some of the ground, a mixture of mud, grass, roots and worms. She put it in the basket on her back and moved to gather more of the deep brown earth. She brought her full basket and emptied it next to her husband who sat cleaning the mud. He pulled out every blade of grass, every pale wrinkled root, every squirming worm. The worms were returned to the hills but they kept the grass and roots too dry to use as fire starters.

Three days of gathering and cleaning. Then the two sat down together and began shaping the cold clean mud into bricks. Three days they sat, mud permanently housed underneath their fingernails, dried mud streaked across their face from where they wiped away sweat, which made the mud stickier. They worked through the day, through the darkness; they only stopped when the moon took over from the sun in the blank sky. They woke with the first rays of daylight and continued working.

When all the bricks had been formed, the two laid them out in flats, 20 bricks by 20 bricks. Then they took the dried roots and grass and built a blazing fire around the flat spreads of bricks. They had many fires so the bricks would harden at the same time.

The other giants, from their homes scattered on the hills, saw all of the fires, the smoke billowing a greenish color from the roots, and began walking towards the river to help. Soon the fires were surrounded by giants, all waiting for the bricks to be finished so they could build a house. While they waited they fished and ate and laughed, their voices sounding like boulders rolling down mountains, and when they laughed it was as if the boulders had hit others and cracked into pieces. They made music with their voices.

Today, I walk down to the house to look at it. The doors are all gone, rotted or, more likely, looted. Tall weeds grow around the doorframe that leads into the house, but peering beneath, I see small scratch marks, like the ones that marked the doorframe where I grew up. Only these lines extended far above my head on the huge frame—maybe there really were giants here.

All over this country lie these strange skeletons. Each one a different story, but if you pay attention you can hear them whispered to you. The words flow across land and time to re-form within your ear. Some stories tell of kings and warriors. Some are about lovers. Still others haunt you with tales of death and loss. But really, they're not much different than our stories today.

I find a fishing rod in the corner of the skeleton by the river. Not made of titanium and plastic like today, this is simply a large tree branch with some rope attached. I look, but the end of the rope is frayed—the last fish must have stolen away with the hook. The branch is marked with notches. I imagine a second rod, also marked, envisioning a competition between father and son. Who can catch the biggest fish? An ongoing competition, one that never truly ended, the title passed back and forth between the two endlessly.

I move around the cool damp room, feeling lumps of dirt beneath my shoes. The room is large so even though one side is gone, the far corner is still in shadow. I go over, my eyes adjusting slowly to this darkness. Nothing, only a hidden smell, secret, a fishy smell. As my eyes finish adjusting, I notice that the dirt here is completely smooth; it's a deeper, richer brown, almost red. Something pokes up from the smooth expansive floor; I bend to look at it. I pull it up out of the ground, dirt dislodging, leaving a hole where it previously lived. It's a bone, a pretty large one. There is still a piece of fish skin clinging to it—they cleaned their fish here. I hold the bone a moment longer before replacing it in its hole, but it doesn't fit as well as before.

I think of the mothers and their daughters. What would they do while the others were out fishing? They probably cleaned and got the fire hot for the fish dinner that night, but as I hoist myself up the large staircase, ghostly images fill the empty space. I see clearly a mother, brushing the hair of her daughter, the long strands only separated by a pitchfork. I see laughter, and a fire blazing behind them, ready for the bread that has finished rising on the table. The mother, finished, gathers the loose hair from the floor and tosses it into the fire. Sparks rise from the strands that catch, but others are pushed upwards in the draft, rising into the chimney. The girl rises, leaving to play outside along the river.

Suddenly I am alone again, the vision gone, simmered away into smoke. I look around, but the fireplace is empty, no charred marks are left at all. But as I peer up into the chimney, a single piece of hair waves, caught between two bricks.

I make my way slowly down the stairs, stepping with two feet on each like I had when I was a child so as not to fall. In the cold basement once again, I see out of a crack in the wall a man and son fishing. I feel haunted, a larger presence made known through these two small humans.

I leave the house, knowing every time I pass it, the family will live again. I aim to visit the other skeletons in my county to put flesh back on their bones.