This Old House

Was it the sagging beam on my front porch?

Is that what drove you away?

Was it my flimsy windows? My unruly yard?

What about my fading paint convinced you that I was unworthy of a fresh coat?

When did all the trudging about up and down my stairs become too much of an annoyance? The groaning treads of the third and fifth risers no longer an amusing quirk of my personality, but an affront. A harbinger of imminent collapse.

Did you tire of my air conditioner running all day long to keep pace with your demands? Of the hard to change lights of my ceiling fans?

My pool? Its sparkling blue waters gone varying shades of green throughout your disinterested watch?

It was my citrus trees, wasn’t it? The ones you once admired so? The reality of fallen, rotting fruit replacing the visions of freshly squeezed juice and cocktail parties.

Was it my picket fence? Oh, the picket fence. Its sagging posts and missing planks no longer capable of keeping the world out and the warmth in. My once benevolent grin now a snarling menace.

I offered safe haven. You made me a prison.

But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. There will be others. In fact, here comes a nice looking couple now. They look excited. The boy wants to climb my walls. I bet he’d even sneak out onto my patio roof to watch the fireworks as yours once did. Did I ever tell you about that time?

Well, it doesn’t matter now.

They see me.

Not my flaws. Not the features I lack. Not the promises I never made.

Me.

As you once did.

I will be happy.

And you will forever be the one who got away.

 

Goodbye, old friend,

– The Blue House

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About the author
Paul Slaybaugh is here to sell houses and chew bubble gum. He's all out of bubble gum. More About Me >>>

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