House of Tim

My friend Tim’s house was the place to be when I was a child. His parents were loving, his family life wonderfully mild. We all went over and sang hymns at the end of Sunday. The rest of the days were all about laughter, and play. Tim’s house was a haven, where we teenagers hid out. A place where we could be found if we were in a pout. The house was nothing special, but we did not realize it. For the love within came from a family with caring and wit. I had not been back for nigh onto thirty-two years But I figured Tim’s house would be there, never had fears. Drove up to a field that was overgrown with vines and weeds. Stopped a few seconds to collect a few pumpkin seeds. My children were all excited to see the house I had told them about. They began to holler and laugh, and one gave a loud happy shout. Then we turned the corner and the house came into sight. We were all suddenly struck silent, for it was a fright. The house I had remembered had a roof that had caved in. It had taken some licks, it could barely hold up its chin. Do you want to get out? Asked my caring, lovely wife. Indeed I did, for this house held memories that sweetened my life.