If Walls Could Talk

“If walls could talk”

Sure, they say “If walls could talk” but they never consider what the walls would say. I would bet on them tearing me down for all the things I’ve seen. All the things they’ve said and done would be on me. It’s funny the way humans can view their actions as the fault of another’s observation. Here I am, with a lifetime of observation and no one to blame but myself and those who built me here. So you want to hear it from the perspective of a lowly brick wall of a New York apartment? I have time for a few short memorable moments I have picked up on throughout my life as the backdrop to the lonely and to the social.

There was Carrie. Her first time living on her own, fresh out of college and 2500 miles away from home. I watched as she unpacked her life here and became someone new. The first boyfriend she would give herself away to, just for him to leave nothing but a sticky note behind. I held that note reluctantly, waiting for her to come home. I watched as she picked the note up from me and slowly slunk down into the couch. It felt like a lifetime before she stood back up. Days of missing work, piles of ice cream cartons and her record of sad lonesome music on repeat. If I knew the depths of time, I would spill it immediately.

After Carrie came a small family of four who one day would become a family of 1. The death and loss in those years would darken my walls. One car crash would take someone's whole life away and I was the only thing there to provide comfort. That’s hard on a wall, to provide something only arms and a head can truly provide. This story ends in a way I wish it didn’t. A wall like me can be like a sponge with the things I have seen and observed.

Some years I held nothing at all but the broken views of the city down below, awaiting the next story to unfold before me.

I have heard the giddy news of a daughter accepted into her dream university, and I’ve heard the gossip of the town. Johnny’s cheating on Kate. Amber is expecting. Dad left town and only bought a one way ticket.

I apologize for the darkness but who else can I tell these stories to? I am but half a wall, bricks exposed and burned.

They say “If walls could talk”. I would tell you that my last story is the reason I am just half a wall. A story that starts with a young man. A new to town, dreamer. He had everything lined up in his favor. He may have been my favorite. I was quickly littered with posters and paper of all that inspired him. I inspired him.

“Yes mom, I made it to the city just fine.” His first phone called behind this closed door. “Yes. I will eat plenty and I’ll make good friends. Yes. Ok. I love you mom…”. He hung up the phone and I could feel him sigh. A sigh that seeped into my walls like what I would assume a warm hug felt like. He was the first to gaze at me as if I was staring straight back.

No this isn’t the tale of a wall and a man. No sick sort of love that would end the reading of my story. Nothing of the sort. Just a man who would inevitably blame the wall on it’s observations and take away the view.

They say “If walls could talk”, but what would walls tell.