October. The winds are blowing with a hint of the winter bite to come. Families are making sure their firewood is stocked, pumpkins placed on porches, and trash bags shaped to imitate ghosts hang from tree branches. Nights are filled with silence as the houses have swallowed their inhabitants in the warm embrace of togetherness.
Except for me.
My windows are broken and my doors creak. My once beautiful cedar siding has been shedding its beige-colored skin for years and my roofline resembles a frown. My insides hurt because my joints are rotted and my walls which used to hold the secrets of both the gossips of high society parties and children alike are now covered with graffiti, holes, and torn floral wallpaper. My lawn, which has seen first steps and last breaths, hasn’t been cut in so long I am now the hiding spot for neighborhood strays.
The worst part? The loneliness.
I know how I look on the outside and I’m even scarier on the inside. I recognize this. I am not terrifying; I am aching to be loved just as I have loved so many before I became forgotten. I don’t long to be the place where new memories are made.
Sitting in my misery, I feel a warmth inside I haven’t felt in a lifetime just as I hear a voice say, “this house was built in 1897 by the town doctor who ordered nothing but the finest. Just look at the mahogany crown molding throughout…”