Time came with the wind. Came with the rain and snow, the heat and cold. It battered against my log frame. It ate at the plaster that kept out the cold. As the ground beneath me shifted, my walls cracked with the strain, but I remained upright, a protection for my inhabitants.With love, they painted my window frames and hung a strong door to keep out the elements. They filled me with the nicest furnishing they could afford. Then children came. Their laughter filled every nook and cranny within my walls, and I sang with them. Around me, cattle lowed and sheep bleated. Farm machinery hummed from spring to fall and rested through the snow.
Over the years, my first inhabitant’s hair turned gray. Their steps became a little feebler each day. The children grew and one by one went away. Then a day I hadn’t seen coming arrived. A yellow sign appeared in front of me, and shortly thereafter, the now old couple left and the sign came down.
Slowly, the hinges holding up my door pulled away from the frame, and eventually the door collapsed. Stones hit my windows, shattering them. Rain and snow hurled through my open doorway, rotting my foundation. But who is there to care? Will anyone bring laughter back to me? If you will, come right on in. Make me sing again, and I have a lifetime of stories I’ll share with you.
4 comments:
Ah, if walls could speak... I love going for drives along the old back roads here in New England, seeing the skeletal remains of red barns and farm houses, the crumbling stone walls... Lots of stories there. Maybe we'll write them. God bless, Eunice.
I liked this piece written from the perspective of a house - very unique and fun. Great imagery. I can think of a few old houses I've seen and I think I'll look at them differently now!
Beautifully put, Eunice. Being a lover of history and the past, your posting touched me.
Our forefathers, the pioneers, left us with a great heritage that offtimes is forgotten and abandoned just as the old log houses, barns, granaries, and other shelters are left to rot and fall apart.
Ah, Eunice, this post makes me think of the house my husband and I lived in when we were first married, and in which all our children were born. When the time came to sell it, we were fortunate to sell it to some friends of ours who have maintained it just right. Yes, houses do have stories.
Post a Comment