The wall & the voices

If walls could talk, you will indeed hear the many fascinating stories this old belle has to offer. I am not built within a glamourous Victorian, nor in a Manor of many rooms. I am, however, made in a simple single-family home with one hundred and five years of loving families who have blessed my ears. However, one family ended that peace in my one-hundred-and-seventh year. Cold tones in their voices moved in a family disrupting me with their toxic energies. Oh! The anguish they created within these rooms and the weeping at night constantly brought sorrow to my heart. I shudder at the thought of remembering the crying again. Nonetheless, I shall only lead you toward the end by touring the beginning of this family.

Autumn was brisk that year; the windows were open, and hearing the subtle breeze was perfect. A woman's voice that was unfamiliar to me invaded the living room, "We are renting for a while, and this space is perfect for the kids!" Her voice, at first, was full of light and excitement. That tone gave me joy because the home was empty for nearly one year. I felt alive again when she spoke of children. I remember the high pitch of the children and how they laughed with delight. Crying babies were never my favorite sound, yet one gets used to that after hearing so many. This woman with warm tones had such a gentle harmony whenever she spoke. Unfortunately, the harmony didn't last. A cold, masculine bitter toned man followed this sunrise of a woman. "This is it?" I can just feel the harsh sharpness of his response. "Will my daughter even have space for her to play in?" I felt his snapping remarks as if they were nailing screws in me. Who could possibly make anyone happy when they sound like that? "Why do you only think about your daughter? My son will live here too." The woman sounded as irritated as I was. The only thing I was thinking was to leave! I wanted to yell out LEAVE FOREVER! After all, wisdom is only allowed to those who listen, and neither seemed wise enough to leave my presence or that relationship. Thus here was the first impression and forever impression they, unfortunately, gifted me.

Once the children followed, it was bliss and sadness. I could tell they were little ones, the boy full of imagination was six, and the girl full of curiosity was four. The girl never stayed long to visit. The boy named Josh I cannot forget. As I mentioned, he was full of imagination and wanted to be loved so desperately. He was the only one who could hear me, which was no surprise to me. Children with the biggest hearts and imaginations are always open to the impossible. One night he cried because his mother had yelled at him angrily about not listening to her. Which I don't believe was how to handle a child, but what do I know after one hundred and five years of witnessing parenting. His weeping was constant, and so was her yelling. It's so sad when a child is crying, and they don't understand why. "Why doesn't she love me? Why is she always yelling at me? I am not bad." His quivered voice was so low-spirited. "Oh, child, do not worry. Your mother loves you, and no, boy, you are not bad." I needed to comfort him. "Who said that! Are you my angel?" Children always call me their angel, and I tell them whatever they are comfortable hearing. "I have been called many names by the many children I talk to. I am not an angel but a friend who hears everything in every room." "You sound old. Are you old?" I remember I giggled at his question. "Yes, I am one hundred and seven years old. I am the grandmother of all walls here in your room. I can hear everything, but only in this room can I speak to the one who listens." "Do you live in the wall?" "No child, I am the wall. I do not have eyes, and you are the only one who can hear me." I can feel the excited pitch in his voice. "I'm going to call you my friend Blue because your color is blue!" "Then my name is Blue, and whenever you feel sad, you can always talk to me." "Ok, my name is Josh, and I can't wait to tell everyone about my magic wall Blue!" I remember hearing him run to his mom; all she did was yell. "Didn't I tell you to go to sleep!" She wasn't full of warmth anymore. She was as cold and empty as the man she moved in with. "She doesn't love me! She hates me!" Then he cried himself to sleep like every other night. Sadness consumed the rooms that I was built in.

I wish I could tell you that over the years, things changed and that the boy finally stopped crying. The grim truth is she didn't stop yelling, and the man always stayed cold. Back and forth, words full of ugliness echoed within the walls. He was worse when he was drunk and made her feel unworthy. He had no care in his tone. He was so militant and bitter towards her. I often found myself weeping for her. "Blue, please don't cry; I wish mommy could talk to you. You always make me feel better." Josh was so comforting for being so young. I am told that three hundred and sixty-five days are in one year. I have only heard sixty-five days of laughter. With each passing year, the laughter was becoming less and less. I was consumed by the grey energy of this family's sorrowful life. "Blue, are you still alive?" I couldn't answer the boy's question because I felt like I was dying. " I am sorry, my sweet boy, but I am dying from the sadness." "I think I am dying too because I am always sad. My mom will never stop yelling at me." Oh, how I wished I had arms to hold that melancholy boy. Silence filled the room as we both felt the sickness of death waiting to pounce.

Weeks turned into seasons, becoming a blur of cold memory. Five years of being infected by the madness finally came to an end. This empty poisoned young woman finally said, "You cannot stay here; I am done; I cannot do this anymore." Her voice was shaken and afraid. Yet bold and courageous. This was the first time I heard the man's voice go from cold to fearful. He pleaded with this brave woman who finally stood up to him. Then his tone became angry and blameful. What astonished me in my years of being committed to this toxic family was that he cried! The man with the empty vessel who made this woman feel worthless was now crying and pleading for her to change her mind. I listened attentively and waited for her to be that afraid woman again. I could not see her body, but her voice gave me the image. As she began to speak firmly, she was strong. A melody of assertive tones was loud and clear. The strength in her voice became the light this home needed. Where she had retrieved such power, I did not know. She had such fire and radiance in her words. "Leave; I want you out of my life forever." The door slammed, the house shook, and I just listened quietly. At first, I heard nothing, but then she began crying. The tone wasn't her usual crying which I have come to know. This was a different type of crying where laughter was mixed in. Then I began to understand that she was crying because she was relieved. I was also relieved, and soon after, I began to weep with the brave, broken woman.

Walls are great storytellers, and we are also great listeners. People fill our rooms with life and death with the tones of their voices. Voices can carry malice and grace when spoken. Whether from a soft, gentle manner to an angry soprano of words. Children are the living walls that are the most affected when the tones of terms are used harshly. I have always imagined that children and I have one significant commonality: we are affected by the voices we listen to. I am now one hundred and fifteen years old. The woman never left, and she never allowed the man back. Over time her voice was warm and light again. She changed how she spoke to her son and to herself. Now there are more days of laughter, love, and life in the home I was built in. Also, the boy never stopped imagining. "Blue, are you still alive?" "Very much so, my sweet boy, very much so."