I first saw this house 26 years ago. Of course, it looked much better back then. Not so weary and time- and weather-bedraggled. It used to look as if someone had closed the door to go to the market, intending to return within the hour. Through the curtains I could see what appeared to be a console-type television and some furniture as I drove by. Or maybe it was just my imagination.
Within a short amount of time the grass took on a rough and wild appearance. What seemed to be large weeds turned into small trees. The glass windows became targets for rocks or other projectiles. It has seen the ravages of dark, rainy nights and unforgiving heat waves. And the paint quickly faded. For most of the year this decline happens behind the cover of overgrowth, but during the dormant months of winter the house is again revealed, tattered and alone.
Someday this house will be gone along with the memories that it was once lived in by people we never knew. There was, and still are the remains of, wallpaper in the front room. The curtains that were carefully hung have mostly turned to dust. Shutters still stand straight and tall, hanging on to the pride with which they were once painted.
This house is just a few miles from Rose’s house. I wonder if she knew the people who lived here, and what makes one house live on while another is forgotten.