“A house is made of walls and beams; a home is built with love and dreams.” — Unknown
Once upon a time architect pens hovered over floorplans,
Electricians strung the wires between the studs,
The roofers hammered the shingles,
And every last paint color and brick shade was selected.
Anticipation and promise and the possibilities of the future hung in the air,
Calendar days were counted for the completion of the construction.
Title papers were signed,
The key was handed over,
And a new life began.
The new owners had an idea of what their lives would be like,
The dreams of connectedness,
The hopes of happiness and joy,
The thoughts of future years planned out.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Something happened.
I don’t know what.
All I know is that when I moved into this neighborhood seventeen years ago,
The dream for life in that house had died,
This hope was abandoned.
As far as I remember, this house has always been abandoned.
Seventeen years of echoes within the rooms.
Seventeen years of neglect and abandonment,
Seventeen years on display for all who pass by to see.
I may not live in Maycomb, Alabama, but I think Harper Lee would agree that this house has the feel of the Radley home—
The decay,
The mystery,
The sadness of lives not lived as anticipated.
Thanks to a lack of housing restrictions in the country,
This home has fallen
And fallen
And fallen into disrepair and neglect.
That house has haunted me for years.
I don’t think an evil spirit or even Casper the Friendly Ghost hovers.
However, there is a sense of grief and loss associated with this house each time I drive by.
Lost now—-
All the love and attention,
All the time and energy,
All the anticipation and hopes and passion—-
And now the weeds hide the front of the house,
The front door that once hosted a wreath for Christmas
is now hidden from view.
The tree that may have hosted the play of children among its limbs
Now stands with dead branches, drooping and falling on the once-shingled roof,
The yard that once was green and new
Is now strewn with weeds and dead grass.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
How can a building have such a loud voice?
How can it speak to my heart of the disappointments in life,
To the desperation silently felt by so many?
It seems to stand as a monument to the many shattered dreams and
The grief of lost possibilities.
Grief is not just a loss of a physical presence.
It is the loss of future dreams and future possibilities.
This house speaks to me of the choices available to me at this time of change in my life—
When my husband no longer is beside me,
And when my children are physically or emotionally distant.
This house speaks to me of the individuals who have given up,
Those whose massive potential screamed to the world,
And yet those same individuals whose self-view became so distorted that giving up and giving in were the only options.
This house speaks to me of those whose mental illnesses have warped the possibilities,
Those whose grief, depression, and anxieties have grown up to shut out the sunshine.
Those whose dark secrets have blocked the entrance or exit from their inner self-imposed exile.
This house haunts me with questions:
Will I be the house I currently live in?
Willing to undergo a new vision, a new remodeling, a new purpose?
Or will I silently give in to time,
Watching it pass me by as the bushes cover the front windows, back windows, and doors,
As the glass darkens,
As the exits to the house are blocked?
* * * * * * * * * *
This house haunts me in its sadness.
The possibilities dreamed of are now dead.
There is no hope for these four walls other than demolition.
I am not ready for this.
I am destined for more than demolition or self-immolation.
It is hard to see the beauty of this new life with its changed possibilities.
However, it is a good thing that this woman who has undergone several traumas in life
is good with yard work and hard work.
I am picking up the pruners to trim back the bushes,
Kneeling, weeding my beds,
Standing with my hose, watering my plants,
Searching for bees feeding from the blossoms.
I am picking up my window cleaner, making sure that the vision from my windows is clear.
Day by day, step by step, inch by inch,
I am clearing out the mental and emotional debris,
Determined to make my physical and symbolic house
a testament,
a monument of
resiliency, of strength, and of hope.
Maybe if I can make my “house” that sort of testament
Others with no hope will perhaps dare to speak to me,
Dare to perhaps clean their own windows and let me help them with their yard work.
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