Poor Old House

Poor old, half-painted, clapboard house. Your hallways quiet – no more laughter and joy, pain or grief, births and deaths. No more babies' cries or children playing in the yard. When Grandma drew her last breath you released all those years of living and loving out of your windows and they floated skyward. Silently now, you sit save the occasional chirps of crickets and creaking wood on a windy day. You once held much joy, and the hopes and dreams of all who slept within your walls. Now we drive by and have forgotten what you used to be – now you're a sad, half-painted clapboard house, no longer a home.