The House

The house sits on the mountain, a little worse for wear. The sun and the rain have taken their toll. The tea roses are still blooming even though they have overstepped their boundaries. Can you hear the sounds from the back porch as Grandma churns the cream that will become butter? She always hated that chore the most. If you listen closely, you can hear her humming as she goes about her daily routine. Over the breeze comes the sound of the cows mooing to each other as they munch on the tall grass that grows so abundantly. They are not far.

The porch swing moves to and fro in the wind, the rusty chains keeping time to a melancholy tune. Many hot summer days were spent on the old swing as well as the moonlit nights, the setting for the stories of old. Grandma loved to tell stories about her papa, whom she missed desperately. Can you hear her laughter as she reminisces? The barely discernable sound of giggling as all the children try to climb into her lap. There, what is that sound? Barely above a whisper on the still summer night you can hear Grandma as she tends to one of the babies lulling them to sleep with the swing and her voice.

The sounds carry over the mountain as the day comes to a close. The old stove, iron clanking as Grandma adds wood to build a fire to make the final meal of the day. Can you hear her humming as she prepares the evening meal? Close your eyes and you can hear the voices, reciting the events of the day at the supper table. Grandma listens to each and every one, patting a head or a hand as the situation warrants.

If you listen carefully, you can hear the sounds of the children readying themselves for bed drifting across the still night. Can you hear Grandma as she sings their nightly lullaby? The night air drifts across the lonely mountain carrying with it the sound of her voice as she croons the age old songs handed down from generation to generation.

The night is still now except for the sounds of the restless night creatures as they tend to their young. Hauntingly the old house creaks in the cool air, settling from the sun of the day and the family it nestles.

The porch swing creaks as Grandma, alone except for the night, finally has time to rest from the chores of the day. The house stands tall, the protector of those within its walls, as the swing sings out. What is she thinking? Is it the chores that never end or the children whose lives with which she has been entrusted? Does she dream of her papa, who she loved so dearly? A stray tear winds its way down her cheek. Does she worry about what the world has in store for her children?

As hard as I try, I cannot hear the thoughts that must have filled her head night after night as she sat on the swing. What were her hopes and dreams? Did she long for a life different from that which she lived? Can she hear the days of her childhood? Was there a house, just like this that she yearns to return to because it holds the voices and the sounds that she remembers?

The other sounds all mingle as the night moves on and the moon catches the glistening of dew on the tall grass. The house sits on the mountain, a little worse for wear.