There they stand alone, unused, decaying day by day. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for each one I came across over the years. I looked them over, took a few pictures to remember them by and then let my imagination out for awhile. That, actually, raised more questions than I had before.
Going up to the place there is always the basics: name, how many in the family, where are they now? All good routine questions but after you stand around for awhile in company of an old home you come up with a few more.
That window out front, looking out onto the porch, what happened there, on the other side, the inside of the house? I’d bet there was a Christmas tree, fully decorated so any neighbor passing by could see it clearly and say how lovely it was when next he saw the owner. In that front room there may have been a wedding, perhaps the first child of the new home was in his parents’ arms as the customary photos were taken. Who knows, there might well have been a wake in that front room, the observance of a life now passed.
Upstairs, that window, perhaps it fronted a bedroom where the child whose birth was later celebrated was in fact born. It just might be that he or she who was waked downstairs took a last breath in this room.
I’ll never know the answers to these thoughts, of course, for the abandoned decaying house will tell me nothing. The stories it could tell will remain untold leaving me to wonder about what once was.