If Old Houses Could Talk

What if old houses could talk? What tales they could tell.

The house gazes upon the clandestine primordial lovers seek their embrace under the spreading willow tree, the draping leaves shielding their illicit love. The child that grew within, now playing under its ancient bough brings laughter and joy. What sorrows lie ahead only time will tell but for now.

Life so precious and pure, what wrenching sorrow drives one to the brink of the lake? He stares into eternity the rippling waves tiding over the rocks. What measure of desolation dwells within? The void within. The rage. Sorrow to fill the depths of madness. One moment of clarity then…
gone.


The stately dress, the crisp blue uniform long gone, coursing slowly across the burnished floor. Walls no impediment to the gently swaying pair, circle the room once, twice, thrice. The strains of a departed ensemble echo across the ages. They gaze longingly and then smile then are gone, lost to the past.


The blank stare of the empty windows, the creaky staircase spiraling to rooms previously occupied with laughter, love and tears. The kitchen no longer smells of roasted meats, crisp apple pies and warm cocoa. The tattered gingham curtains blow restlessly fueled by rain-driven wind through the shattered window. Night stalking creatures now occupy the cellar once stocked with coal to ward off the cold, crisp wintry nights. The foyer invites no more, the hat rack now empty. The spacious library devoid of books, of robust banter, of a languid life, is now a tomb.


The blank ghosts of lives past live on in the shell of the house. Oh, the tales it could tell if only it could tell.