Back When.

of the mansion that our grandparents once owned.

It used to be a happy, warm place, but now it

reeks of sorrow and deceit. Even the warm summer

sun cannot revive the mansion's cold, unforgiving heart.

No longer do the bluebirds sing, and even the spiders that

used to make the window sills their home will not come near.

Upon stepping into the heartbroken mansion one feels the urge

to cry a sea of tears. The pots of beautiful violets and daisies that

once hung from the ceiling reign no more. It's almost as if Jack Frost

himself ripped the very soul out of the house that used to be sweet

all the way to the core. The apple trees out front have died and

no longer give life to the most succulent fruit that fed my family for years.

Tomorrow it will be thirteen years since our beloved grandparents died.

When they departed they took the life out of the place that they built with

their own hands. Like a beaver that works for hours to build its lodge, our

grandparents poured all of their sweat and tears into their dream house.

Through whipping winds, sheets of rain, and drifts of snow they cut the wood

and cut the glass. As I walk through the kitchen I take a trip down memory lane.

This is the place where aromas of freshly brewed coffee and omelets once

ran supreme. I haven't seen this place in years and now I think that maybe

it'd be best if I moved in so that I can breathe a little life into the place

that my flesh and blood once lived in. I'm about to spend my first night

in the palace that has become so dim. As I walk around the labyrinth, I begin

to realize how much of a job it must have been to create such a cherished life.

At midnight I climb into bed and look around the nine hundred square foot

room and begin to realize the meaning of the word solitude. On the nightstand

next to the bed is a picture of my grandma and grandpa. "I promise I'll

bring life to this place," I tell them. "I wish I could come and get ya."

Early that morning I wake up and walk to the window. When I open up the blinds,

I see a dove perched on a willow tree. Like a hawk that stalks its prey, it's

eyes are glued to me. I realize this is the first bird I've seen since I arrived.

It is then that I know that my grandparents are sitting in the tree and I begin to cry.