Hello Back...

If walls could talk, would anyone even hear me over the wind rattling all the loose parts. The forgotten rooms and broken windows. The fraying wallpaper and crumbling bricks. Fireplaces that were once filled with warm flickering flames, now just dance with shadows and leaves. Cabinets stocked with cobwebs and doors that clang in the gusts, teetering on their rusted hinges. There are barely any remnants of the lives once lived in front of me.

How many years had passed? There was no way for me to tell. Peeling paint wasn’t nearly as accurate as rings on a tree stump. It could have been ten years or perhaps it was closer to fifty. I always heard the farmers talking about just how quickly times were changing, it did not matter which generation. The phrase was always some version of the same, ‘it moves too fast, who can keep up’. I suppose it doesn’t matter, the tale stays the same. In the end I was left to disintegrate with the immeasurable passage of time.

Years were easier to track in the beginning. I could watch children grow and parents become grandparents. Funeral processions leaving out the back, and new bundles of life coming in the front. Three generations of farmers worked, slept, gathered together for meals and just simply lived in front of me. I was ready for this to continue, to bear witness to endless memories and moments. I knew there was a bigger world outside of this house, and off of this farm. It had never seemed to matter much. But slowly it began to slither in, erode at the foundation.

I watched the fights in pieces. Sometimes the start, and sometimes the end. Either way it would result in someone stomping up the stairs away from the person standing at the bottom. Hands on hips, head shaking in disappointment, frustration or sadness. If the yelling had just begun, they would lift their head and march right up after the other. If it was the end, they would watch the ascending stomps, then turn, mumble frustrations, accusations and profanities in my general direction. How I wished I could have chimed in. If walls could talk, I may have had some answers, some solace, or would have just offered them a comforting place to lean.

It rotated between mother, father and their daughter Abigail. This generation had failed to bring a son into the mix. A guaranteed heir to the fields of golden wheat out back, that were always just outside my vision. On quiet days, before blasting televisions and stereos, I could hear it rustling in the wind through the open windows. Her parents wanted nothing more than for her to continue to care for the land, just as they had done, and her grandparents had done and her great grandparents before them. It was a legacy, a destiny to be fulfilled. Abigail had other plans. Desires for that world outside myself and these other walls.

“I will not be climbing up into a combine”

“I have a life I need to live.”

“Your mother does it.”

“Your grandmother did it.”

“This is what our family does.”

“You don’t turn your back on family.”

“What would you say to your grandfather who built this all with his bare hands?”

“There are places I want to see. Things I want to do.”

And I might have been the only one to hear Abigail's whisper as she sunk down on the staircase, “I want more, and I know it’s out there beyond these walls and wheat fields.”

In the end, I was the one to see her leave. Creeping so very quietly down that staircase. A pack strapped tightly to her back, and another in her arms. She paused and stared into me. How I wanted to give her some answers, some semblance of guidance. If walls could talk, I would have had no wisdom to give her though. This was the only life I knew. I had no idea what would be waiting for her out there. I would never see Abigail stomp up or down that staircase again.

After that night, the farmer turned to the bottle, and his wife then turned to the ranch hand. Traffic up and down that staircase became tragic. The farmer stumbling up, his wife sneaking down. There was no stomping, no yelling, no pleas for saving. This time I watched the resentful restlessness and did not wish to speak. I was grateful walls could not talk, I had no words to offer into this downfall. Instead I would just become the sole witness to the other woman of the house, fleeing with her bags. It was the mirror image of her daughter two years prior. I heard her choke back a sob, and turn, just as her daughter did to take in my view. Their final view was my forever view.

The years began to drag by, less memories to mark them with. A few blurred together I’m sure. The farmer slowly descended into himself. Drinking and disrepair became the caption for his final years. A life forgotten and cut short with one final stumble. No one ever came to claim the land or this forgotten home.

***

Now I just wait for the occasional trespasser to make their way through the fields and up the gravel drive. Subtle sounds can tell me if they are here for evil or art. The noises they make when they are stepping in the side door, or foolishly clawing their way in the back. That was a dead give away. The dramatics. Even those that had been through these halls before knew how to get in with no fuss. But hands filled with spray paint and booze, it added to the allure I suppose to crawl through the boards and windows in the back. I am grateful to remain ignored. Not worthy enough for them to decorate with their uninspired drawings and colorful phrases. But I hear it all happening. The hideous laughter, the breaking bottles and the thrown empty cans. I imagine I feel as if the farmer did at times, that it is all just coming down around me. None of it matters anymore.

But then there are the others. The ones that manage to find inspiration in the deterioration. They paint over the profanities. Try and capture the aged version of what was. I do not always understand their view, but they all understand mine. They do not ignore me. Most times I am the center of attention, used for props and poses. And I love when they capture my view. Marveling at it the way I always had. And in those moments, I remember too, and the years don’t feel as long and empty. If walls could talk, I would tell them about my favorite visitor, ask if they know her and to tell me more.

The first time she came, I knew immediately she was different. Light steps, not of trepidation. It seemed like she was trying to be gentle, as if the old floors had feelings too. This one reminded me of family. Of being part of a home. She marveled at my worst parts. She cleaned the debris left by the derelicts. She would sometimes bring items that she felt belonged. Then would leave them to stay long after her camera stopped flashing. Staging photos against other walls and windows that, like myself, had long since lost their beauty. In her eyes though, there was beauty in the breakdown.

***

Today was no different. Her light footsteps came in through the side door. As if she knew I had missed her, she headed right towards me. And like me she turned to face the falling staircase. She sighed deep. It wasn’t sad, it was satisfied. Then she spoke, “Hello house.” If only walls could talk, I would say hello back.