Grandmother's House

If I didn't know anyone lived here I would have assumed the house was empty. You could have said the same for the street. It only sometimes gave evidence to the existence of children and God.

The recent remodel was noticeable. It was the only exactly rectangular shaped house on the street. The white of the screen door still looked shiny and unscathed. It always remained closed and locked. Except, when the children were coming in and out. The top half of the door was glass and had a black screen tucked tightly into the corners of its frame. It gave a facade that an extra thirty dollars was spent on tinted glass. The burgundy wooden door behind it was heavy and it was the only way of knowing if the house was open to visitors. If it was not visible in the darkened glass of the screen door you could enter. The double windows several feet to the right of the front door and down two small brick steps were just as sleepy as the rest of the house. The slanted blinds were nothing fancy, but they were clean. They were simple, white, and easily breakable Wal-Mart bought blinds. The living room furniture covered in thick, sticky plastic was also covered by worn pastel colored sheets. The hallway was long with dark brown carpet. It always seemed haunted because the hallway light was never turned on. The three bedrooms, one and a half bath, and kitchen were spacious and peaceful. The peacefulness seemed like a lie. Those rooms are easily forgotten.

The driveway was partially covered by the carport. There was a door to the kitchen placed tightly in the corner. The driveway and street were frequented by a group of girls bicycles and toys more often than cars. Every Sunday and Wednesday the little gravel lot next door would fill with cars. People filed into the small white building. They were a quiet group. They preached quietly, sang quietly and eventually they filed back outside quietly too. God bless yous, silent goodbyes and then Dowdy Street transforms back into the place belonging to the children.

A new house built on an old foundation. New memories lied upon old ones. The hall was moved and a door was missing. The bright red rose bush that was as tall as the house was still there, playing at the swing set the children used. It was the only color besides green in the yard. The thorns kept the children from picking the flower buds. Spilling out onto the edge of the road now, it stayed. So did the pictures of my grand parents, their children and Jesus that never covered any walls that guests could see. Those were always left bare.