Wistful House

March 27, 2017
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AS I closed the door for the last time, the house seemed to sigh, a sentiment I seconded. I took one last, long breath, catching the musty scent of nostalgia as I closed my eyes, and remembered. I remembered when the kitchen smelled like baking rolls, and strawberry rhubarb pie. I saw the table, clacking, in a warning that you'd better move your fingers, covered with the favorite cloth. Lincoln log cabins were built and destroyed, built, and destroyed. Stories were told, stories of foolhardy young men who roped buffalo in Yellowstone Park, and were saved from Pearl Harbor by a basketball game. I listened to tales of wonderful people, and the house told a story too. Its floors creaked happily, and under it all, the faint mustiness of old memories lay. It told of memories long since made and gone, children long since grown old, and generations long past. 

Every footstep, every story, was an echo of an older one, left for only the house to remember. 

And now, to say good bye to it all? 

That house still holds everything. Hopes and dreams. Worries, regrets, and fears. Hundreds of kids learned to rope there.

A wonderful man loved a wonderful woman. 

A little girl danced in the yard.

Small children played hide and seek under the trees. 

The house keeps them all. 


So you may enter, but please walk softly as you do. As your hands brush the faded wood doorway, let the feel of our memories linger for a while. Let the nostalgia seep into your lungs, and know, this is something sacred. 

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