The house is still empty. It used to belong to a preacher's wife who was unable to care for the home after his death, and the house fell into a bit of a ruin before the foreclosure. The hubs and I tiptoed around the front windows and peeked in, and I felt my breath catch in my throat as I cupped my hands around my eyes and pressed my nose to the glass. This house was alive.
I could imagine family gatherings taking place in the living room, quiet nights reading on the couch in front of the fireplace, sweeping entrances made at the top of the grand staircase. I could smell the scent of cut grass from the balcony out back, taste the barbeque out on the patio, and hear the laughter of kids running around the backyard and out into the golf course.
This house had probably seen all of that, been a part of all of that, and yet it was so still on that day. Shutters partially drawn, leaves strewn about the bricks, and paint peeling inside. It had been left all alone.
It was sad to see such a place so empty, but at the same time, it really did feel as though the memories of all it had seen were still drifting along quietly inside.
It's a beautiful home. It needs love, and I just know that it's waiting and humming until the right family comes along. I wish so badly that we were that family because I had goosebumps and chills and dreams, and doesn't that mean something? I don't know what will happen to it, but I do know that when we go back for Christmas, I'm going to visit my house down the street. I need to know how it's doing.
