The House

I am on top of a hill, looking down on the town. Down there all the houses are new. They popped up almost overnight with their square corners and brilliant white paint. They look so stalwart, but I know in fifty years they will be in worse shape than I. They will sag and droop and someone will board up their windows and paint a large red ‘x’ on all of their doors. And one gray day a giant yellow truck with arms and claws will roll into the town and one by one all the square white houses will disappear into heaps of splintered wood. Then they will all be replaced. And I will see them built, and lived in, and destroyed. Because I am timeless. I was not built by a machine but with human hands. A man who wanted to protect his family cut down the trees for my walls and collected the stones for my foundation. He worked hard for many months, chopping, sawing, hammering, and placing. His hands became rough and he became sunburnt, and together the two of us took shape.

When he was finished he moved his family in. The life of a human is a strange thing. They are always changing and growing. I watched as his wife gave birth, one human becoming two. I watched while his three sons learned to walk and then to run and then leave. And then they came back with their own children. I watched the sons leave for war and their children wait for their fathers to return, still growing in their absence. And this cycle went on. Birth, growth, war, death, until one day a father and a mother and a daughter packed everything that would fit into their car and left.

Then I stood empty, but not for long. Two sparrows built a nest in my chimney. They worked hard on their little house, as hard as the man had worked on me. And I watched the cycle again in miniature. But this time it was different, quieter. Instead of watching in curiosity I let the sensations fill me. Never before had I felt the fluttering of wings or felt the tiny lightness of the sparrows straw-like feet.

Other animals followed the example of the sparrows. First it was a family of mice that moved into what used to be my kitchen, burrowing into the corner of the cupboard. A squirrel started to hide his acorns in my attic and one feral cat slinked around just outside, waiting for the mice to venture forth. I watched the menagerie grow as the moss grew thicker on my stone foundation and on my shingled roof.

Then one day I felt the old familiar feeling of human feet on my front steps. It was a boy and girl, holding hands.

“Are you sure you want to go in?” He said. “People say it’s haunted. She squeezed his hand a little tighter.

“Yes.”

They stepped inside and stood in silence. The girl screamed when one of the mice scurried across my floor, and the boy laughed

“Watch out for the ghost mice.”

She slapped him, but didn’t let go of his hand.

“It’s kinda beautiful in here. I like the way the light looks coming in the dirty window.”

“Here, have a beer.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two beer cans. She took hers and started walking slowly around my large front room.

“I wonder if it’s safe in here. It’s so old, maybe the wood it rotten.”

He watched her, studying her and she studied me. She ran her fingertips slowly along my window sill and took a small sip of her beer.

“Do you want to explore the attic?”

She turned around quickly. “What about the ghosts?”

“That’s the whole point silly. Come on. Let’s find the stairs.”

They looked for a long time, not realising that I don’t have stairs, only a trap door with a ladder. I felt the first rain drop on my roof. It was cool and the moss soaked it up. About the same time that he found the trap door she noticed the rain.

“It’s raining, do you think we should still go up?”

“Of course.” He reached up and pulled down the door showering them in dust. The ladder creaked loudly and landed with a thud, but it was still solid. I was still solid. He took her hand again. “Let’s check it out.”

The rain was loud in my attic. The two spent some time sifting through the relics of previous inhabitants, things no one wanted to take with them. She spent some time with a broken rocking horse, while he studied the craftsmanship of my roof.

“It’s amazing the roof isn’t leaking. Someone built this incredibly well.”

“It’s kinda sad up here. Can we go? I think the rain is letting up.”

“Yeah, but I think I heard thunder. Let’s go see if we can see the storm from out front.”

The two made their way back down and closed my trapdoor. He took her hand again and they sat on my front steps.

“There it is.” He said. “I think it’s coming closer.”

I waited with them. As the thunder got louder and the lightning got brighter she seemed to cheer up, squealing in delight with each roll of thunder. It grew louder and louder until it cracked above me splintering my wooden frame and sending a sudden heat through my body. The boy and girl sprang to their feet and started to run. The heat was building up behind my windows and spreading through my walls. I felt every flame as it roared within me devouring hard work and memories. Just as I was about to collapse the rain started again. It rained hard this time, each drop quenching and soothing the heat. It continued to rain long after the fire was gone, soaking my timbers.

I am on top of a hill, looking down. My roof is cracked and my walls are charred. In my attic is half of an old broken rocking horse. But I am still here, part of me will always be here.