The Windows are Watching

September 11, 2006

     This house is alive. Its walls have been painted with memories of every color, the floors worn by bustling holiday events served with pie. The stairs lead to rooms filled with endless shevles of books leaving the beds to cower in the corners. Each title speaks to me as I slide my fingers along the spine of every book. Dust lifts off into flight through the musty air. It is but another part of the essence of this house. Thus, it is forgiven for my sneezes.

     The halls call to me whispering their hints of exciting doors to be discovered. I open the one painted with the same shade of green as the wall it inhabits. The attics tries to hide behind boxes filled full of ten-year-old trinkets, but knows that there is no need for fear. More books have found their resting place here, waiting for a wanderer to come along and give them meaning once again. I shall be that vagabond. I become absorbed in novels, biographies, historical accounts, and even ancient school annuals where girls with curly hair smile through thick-rimmed glasses. I imagine that many of them are wearing poodle skirts and imagining themselves on the set of American Bandstand. My mind ventures back in time. I am there listening to my record player in my room painted pastel.

     There is a room in this house that was once that color, but my thoughts are interrupted and my bubble bursts with a POP like in an old comic book. A distant voice calls my name, but takes time to register. I walk past grandmother rooms filled with grandmother things and descend the staris. "Nice meeting you," I whisper to the house. It doesn't answer, but I know its reply. It will be waiting for me when I return.