“Dad, the floors creak and I think the tub is going to fall through in one of the bathrooms.”
I hear the boy say this to his father as the realtor stands outside letting them explore me. Try as I might to stand tall and proud, I can't seem to muster the strength. Just like a puppy at a shelter, I have seen people step in and out of my walls many times and can’t help but to feel excited each time. Maybe this is the time I always think to myself, only to be disappointed time and again.
There has been a definite adjustment to the status I now hold, but I still have the memories of who I once was. The days have come and gone; my shutters do nothing but continue to sag further. Just last week, one of the columns on my front finally gave way and splintered in half. It hurt, but no one noticed.
“I know, buddy,” I hear the father say, breaking into my haze of nostalgic self-pity. “I know it’s hard to see now, but I’m telling you this place will be amazing.” The way the man emphasized the last word made me feel a flicker of the kind of pride that burns in your gut.
As if on cue, the sun fell behind a cloud, casting a shadow of skepticism just as the boy tells his father the toilet is overflowing.
“Mrs. Edmonds,” I hear the father call out the solid cherry front door with broken leaded sidelights, “let the bank know I want to make an offer.”