My heart flutters when I see an old house that is slowly deteriorating and leaving no more than possibly a concrete foundation. Eventually even that will crumble and disappear. While they are still here I like to look at them and imagine the family that once lived there and what became of them. If walls could only talk what are the stories they would tell?
Is this the house that was home to an older couple who opened their door to all who came knocking in need of food and shelter? The same couple who never locked their door because everyone knew they had nothing worth stealing, but if someone wanted something that they had all they needed to do was ask and it was theirs.
Perhaps this house sheltered a family that included four young children. A family with so much love that it spilled over to neighbors and friends. All of that love could not be contained by walls. Could this house tell stories of laughter, joy and happiness? Stories that turned to sadness the day the father of these young children was carried away after losing his battle to TB?
I see Sunday dinner spread out at the table with mix match plates , complimented by mix matched chairs around the table. Fried chicken is piled high on the meat platter with mashed potatoes, gravy, Cole slaw and green beans with new potatoes as side dishes. Apple pie is cooling in the window. Decades later all that is left is a shell of the old home place and those Sunday dinners with a family drawn together by love and respect for one another are but echoes of the past.
I see a sadness that surrounds this home as generation after generation, news is delivered to this family that beloved sons who chose to serve their country died with honor during the time of war. Still years and years later the sons and daughters of this same family continue to serve our country and lay their lives on the line daily in the name of freedom.
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