A Glance, I Implore -

Give me an old house full of memories and I will give you hundred novels!”

― Mehmet Murat ildan

I saw you approach cautiously, undoubtedly a result of those nasty stories you’ve been hearing about me. You seemed to be 7, a child yet to know the world, a life spent in sheer joy at every waking moment. I once knew a little girl like you, she’d bring her friends over and we’d have a splendid time playing hide and seek.

I beckoned to you ever so gently, I coaxed you in with your ball, tempted you with the wildflowers that clung on to my walls and swayed in the breeze but you appeared terrified of a broken china set that was seemingly oscillating on its own. Why didn’t you notice it was balanced on a plank that was rocking back and forth?

Child, I could’ve shown you, only if you’d just listened. I would’ve taken you on fascinating adventures and shown you peculiar objects that would’ve invoked your wildest fantasies, only if you’d just see with your own eyes, instead of those society lent you.

These cracked walls possess much beauty underneath the dust that’s accumulated over the years. Right across the hall there, is where a baby had her first steps, the room to its left, housed books – hardcover, leather-bound and pamphlets and this lonely fireplace once had people who held onto it like burs that you could never shake off. There’s a word and whisper, love and laughs, pain and tears – all of it trapped in the air, held prisoner in these walls and preserved forevermore.

My walls are etched with decades of love and beneath this blanket of dust are scrawls and scribbles of crayon and paint, from a time when imagination ran wild. Suspended in the air is dust that has been witness to a story you’ve never heard, vessels and treasure troves of memories are they, with stories that could last an eternity.

But you don’t stay, you grab your ball and I know your departure is one that will never be repeated.

I give you your ball and you run away with it, never looking back.

The day is coming to a close and I look around at all the houses with warm fires and peals of laughter that seem to fall out of houses and reverberate about me. I once had a life like that. I can feel the heat of humanity, filled to the brim with goodness, just plaguing the atmosphere all around but far away from me.

I was once somebody’s home, a child’s safe haven, a shelter for tired and busy souls alike. I remember the fireplace that blazed within me, radiating warmth throughout. I recall the long winters where everyone would sit huddled around it and we were one big, happy family. They are long gone and I am nothing but a heap of stones and broken articles now.

Only time will tell how long I shall stay on this path of redundant existence and remain a home without a people, a detestable piece of architecture that now scares away epitomes of innocence like you.

With a tired sigh, I close my eyes and lend my ears to the songs of togetherness that I can never sing again.

Is it too grave a crime, to pray you steal a glance into this poor friend’s soul?

“It was a mistake to think of houses, old houses, as being empty. They were filled with memories, with the faded echoes of voices. Drops of tears, drops of blood, the ring of laughter, the edge of tempers that had ebbed and flowed between the walls, into the walls, over the years.

Wasn’t it, after all, a kind of life?

― Nora Roberts, Key of Knowledge

Thoughtfully yours, D

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Originally published on Random Specific Thoughts (my blog).