Not today

 

An old and beyond healing house sat alone in a field of crops forgotten. Time and whether combined forces leaving it to decay until it could not stand on its own. But what tales it could tell if anyone cared to listen. He built it with his own two hands each nail hammered a testament of strength and determination.

Today the winds blow slapping overgrown weeds against its side like lashes from a bullwhip meant to cause even more pain than the house had already seen. Harsh winters and scorching summers all collided over time erasing the whitewash of its birth, leaving bare planks and rusty nails.

There were happy times in the small rooms that brought forth new lives and laid to rest those who served her well. A franklin stove sat quietly in a corner never again to brown biscuits or warm frozen hands. I wondered how many candlelit conversations took place around it.

Standing alone in the main room I felt the house take soft breaths as if each one would be its last. A final gust of wind sending it crashing to the ground, unnoticed, never heard. Not today though as the winds were calm and the old house would stay another day, another memory, another story to be told.