You can tell which houses the families still live in…
the others are growing in number…Standing cold, temperature set around 50°, water drained from copper veins, Some heavy with the lead that remains…
Those structures hollowed out by The winds of transience.
Hallways still ringing with the left over booze soaked laughter of the wedding party, or cheers of spring break vacation or, moans From that romantic weekend… or perhaps a night stolen away from a life of sorrow and Suppressed Truths…
These houses hold memories… they hear the voices of those who reside within them, and those just passing through.
Do they Remember?
They must remember each and every time one of us jumped from the barn porch to the studio roof, or Every time the storm windows went up or the panes were Glazed, trim painted once again.
They have to remember every time Eve called out “get the arnica“ or hypericum when one of us stubbed a toe.
Or every holiday when family gathered and rang their hearts like bells into every crack behind every painting, under every piece of furniture.
Will the kitchen ever be as warm without the Tiny wood stove where it used to be? Will it ever know that kind of love again?
I wonder if they catch our dreams..
Every dream I conjured from my room in the studio, as I went from child to teen.
I wonder if the walls caught every hope that lingered as I labored for days for the baby to come out.
Did every wish that went out the skylight over the kitchen table leave a fragment of sparkle as they traveled through the plexiglass?
Did that old house cry like we did when the Apple tree was struck by lightning? Or as hard as my mom did when the old tulip tree came down in the back?
And if it does recall those memories, are they held with as visceral resonance as our hearts still feel when we conjure them?
Or were they covered over with each layer of paint, hidden for another real estate staging… traded for the lonely chill that comes again every Sunday night, when the vacationers go home…
These houses would tell you who we are if they could speak…
If the bench in the kitchen could whisper of every time we sat and pulled the curtain back in wait…
Or the nook where the fish tank sat, so many secret treats hidden behind the cookbooks…
These walls might tell you things, even the ones no longer there. We’ll never forget when Tom Dropped the beam on Juan’s head making way for the dining room.
It must hold some of our tears, the laughter and the wisdom we shared, and the Family before that… We sure felt them.
That house might tell you of the love in every creak up the back stairs after dark. I hope you are listening.
We hope you write new stories and hold them close… and perhaps take the time to paint those boards with your own hand when you do.
We believe these buildings would feel a bit more dapper with some trim paint…
Write new stories…
For the walls inside just might assume the ones that agent told you, when she sold it to you, knowing you’d be selling it again so soon…
Palace of Muse 