The Burdens and Blessings of a Talking Wall

If walls could talk, I would have a lot of stories to tell. I am a wall, and I have stood in this place for as long as I can remember. I've seen families come and go, children grow into adults, and entire communities change. I've heard secrets whispered, arguments raging, and laughter echoing through the halls.

I was built strong and sturdy, made to last. And I have, through all the storms and all the renovations and redecorations. I have seen it all, and yet, no one knows I exist. They lean on me, they hang pictures on me, they paint me a different color every few years. While I have a lot of stories to tell, I am going to share 3 of the most significant.

When I was first constructed in 1929, I was part of a grand mansion, with ornate crown moldings and high ceilings with paintings that would rival the works of Michelangelo. The owners were the Goodstones – the wealthy Arthur and his third wife Lillian. Arthur Goodstone came from a wealthy family, and invested his money in the rising stock market in the time of the golden age of America, when wealth grew rapidly and the rich got richer. Oh, how they spared no expense in making their home a showpiece! I was proud to be a part of it, to stand as a symbol of their success. I saw the joy on their faces as they entertained guests in the grand ballroom, and I felt the love as they gathered around the fireplace on chilly nights.

That all changed when the family fell on hard times. Night after night I heard the muffled sobs of the mother, Lillian, cradling one of her sick children. Lillian suffered from severe depression after the death of her youngest, and the once spirited home fell quiet once the family went their separate ways, the children grew up and moved away. Rumors swarmed the lavish neighborhood as talk of Arthur courting a woman 20 years his junior became rampant. I watched Lillian cry often in that house, her pain reverberating through me as she cursed God for unraveling her family. The Goodstones were eventually forced to sell the mansion, as none of the children wanted to take on the task of restoring the house to its original glorious condition.

There I remained, and patiently waited for what was to come, as it was all I could do. It seemed that time stood still, and one could say that for me it did – the paint slowly chipping and fading away into nonexistence.

~

It was 1975 when I was divided into smaller apartments. I was no longer part of a grand home, but now separated into separate living spaces, each with its own story to tell.

I remember the first family that moved into the apartment I was now a part of – Eddie and Josephine Burgley. They were young and in love, and they filled their space with light and laughter. I felt the vibration of music and dancing feet as these young lovers celebrated their new life together. I felt their energy, a breath of fresh air, like I was part of something beautiful again. They painted me a bright yellow and hung cheerful daisy-print curtains, which were often the topic of conversation amongst Josephine and her friends from the ladies book club. Eddie always lovingly teased his spunky charismatic wife for choosing what he called “an obnoxious pattern for a humble dwelling” and they’d erupt with laughter until they found themselves settled comfortably into each other’s arms. They softly whispered their “I love yous” each night before they went to bed. I felt like I was part of a warm, inviting home once again.

This happiness was short-lived though, as one summer night in July, tragedy struck when Eddie was killed in an accident. He had been on his motorcycle, heading home to Josephine who was waiting anxiously for his arrival with a candlelight dinner. She was going to tell him the news – he was going to be a father.

When Josephine learned of what happened, her agonizing screams felt like a shockwave to me, stirring up this old house to its very foundation. How devastated I was that I could do nothing in that moment but just remain, as always, still… quiet. Time went on and I watched Josephine raise her child as a single parent as best as she could. Eventually they moved out. I will not soon forget Josephine’s face the day they left as she stared blankly at me for the last time. Her once youthful face, now stricken with deep worry lines as if they were the traces of a woman who was living evidence of what grief does to a person.

~

More time passed. Then once again, I found myself a part of yet another family's story. It was 1998. The Parkers were kind and loving, and they had filled their space with light and warmth for a time. I am grateful to be a part of their lives, even if it is only as a silent witness. Michael and Samantha were young professionals who threw wild parties until their first child James was born. Michael had stumbled into the dot-com revolution of the late 90s when he ran into a childhood friend at a local bar. His friend had some dynamic ideas about the use of technology in business and Michael took a chance on him and the two became business partners. As for Samantha, she was a beloved art teacher, admired for her involvement in her son’s school activities.

I have fond memories of the families with children in particular because of the spirit of excitement and pure joy of life they bring. I envied this but I also adored it. These curious children who would press their tiny hands against me, leaving smudges that never fully washed away. How I cherished those!

One time James decided to paint a mural on me, filled with a vibrant scene of animals and imaginative wildlife – I thought I looked quite good! Samantha was not as pleased, and scrubbed away at me for over an hour. Michael had come home drunk that night, as his newly found success at work had opened up old habits, and sparked violent behaviors.

Infuriated after seeing what his son had done, he flew into a rage which sadly James had become all too familiar with. Michael formed his hand into a fist but missed his intended target, and hit me instead. He had punched a particularly weak spot producing a hole, and a frame housing the picture of the Parker family during happier times fell to the floor, the glass pieces littering the hardwood in an instant. I could not help but think that in some way, I protected James from his father… If I had to take the brunt of his anger, I would do so in the only way I knew how. By simply just being.

Time went on and Michael and Samantha had inevitably divorced. Michael moved away to a bigger city for work. James was all grown up by this time and had long since been gone, traveling the world with a family of his own. Samantha remarried and I was happy to see her and her new husband thriving. She had become alive again and so had I.

~

By now you know that over the years, I have been witness to many different types of families, each with their own unique story. Different decades, different relationships. It is a gift and a curse, a blessing but a burden. Human beings are a curious thing; they fascinate me with their lives and allure me with their love for one another. This has always been a common theme within these walls – no matter the times of deep sadness or drunken anger, there was always love at one time.

It is 2023 now. Families no longer reside within these walls, as this structure has been abandoned and mostly forgotten. There have been some folks from the city who have come in from time to time, and I can sometimes pick up on a few things within their conversations… Renovate. Demolish. Let it be.

Whatever my fate is, there is no denying that through it all, I have remained a silent witness, standing tall and strong. But I have also felt all the pain, the joy, and the heartbreak. There is still too much to tell.

But if walls could talk, I would tell the families all of these stories. I would share the laughter and the tears, the joys and the heartbreaks. I would remind them that even though I am just a wall, I have seen and felt it all.

And perhaps, if they listen closely enough, they might hear my tales and know that I am more than just a simple barrier between them and the outside world. I am a part of their lives, a reminder of all that has come before, and a symbol of the strength and endurance that will see them through whatever the future may hold.

So, if walls could talk, I would have a lot to say. The tales of a talking wall are my burden to bare. I would hope that those who live within my walls would stop to listen, and realize that their stories are woven into the fabric of my being, just as I am a part of their story – and part of a house that was once a home. ~