The house sat quietly, it’s windows boarded up, it’s door unopened for quite some time now, the hinges beginning to rust.
The house sat in a field green with weeds and grey with the endless ennui of passing time, filled with nothing now but dusty boxes and distant memories.
As the house sat, to pass the time, it thought about old memories. It thought back to when they first moved in. The boxes, moving their things in. It remembered their first days there, their first morning, their first home-cooked dinner in the house.
It remembered the smell of her cooking on Sunday afternoons and the sound of the dog barking when he came home.
It remembered whispered words of love.
It remembered the proposal and the planning. It remembered the wedding day, and the wedding night.
It remembered them bringing the baby home, his first words, his first steps. It remembered his first day at school and his last day before college.
It remembered them both nearing tears as they watched their son drive off, him holding her in his arms.
It remembered ageing, they got rocking chairs on their porch side-by-side, never too far from each other.
It remembered doctors visiting, news that his heart was giving out. It remembered their final days and it remembered him going. And every once in a while, perhaps in the wind, his rocking chair would still rock next to hers.
It remembered her mourning him and her going to join him.
It remembered a life.
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