History In A House
The holes in the wall, they bother me. There is a desire in me for a smooth and unblemished wall - a sense of irritated curiosity about what hung there before, who the picture may have been of, as it stared, and left these faded outlines on the wall.
What memories were made here, in this place, where others have come before? What lives were lived in these scuffs on the floor that despite my insistent scrubbing, refuse to come out? What treasures lined these shelves in the china hutch, and what laughter and tears have resoundingly echoed from off these walls?
A house has history, and we humans flicker in and out of these rooms, hammer our hearts into these walls, and are gone, leaving behind only scratches in the floors, and a mystery of holes left in these walls.
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