Tonight, a darkened house settling down to rest fills my mind's wanderings. I wonder from far away, if it is raining there, if the limbs on the old oak tree are bending from the summer winds. I try hard to remember if the house has ever been alone before, and come up empty-handed. Will the sun still streak across the windows in the morning? Will the sink faucet keep plopping drops into the basin? How long will it be before the musty, sad scent of aloneness sets in through the wall-to-wall carpets?
Is it permissable to grieve for a loss that is not your own? Does it matter? I have never lived in this house in the traditional sense, but feel connected there, despite having been gone for so long. I have been a part of its once vibrant life. This house, and its inhabitants, welcomed me with smiling outstretched arms, and reluctantly waved goodbye every time I departed after our visits together. I still carry these precious memories in my heart, and suppose that is the best place for them, keeping them close like a stack of old love letters, pulling them out occasionally: to smile, to cry a little, to remember.
Tonight, I am recalling the full life lived within those walls: the people who made my childhood so dear, the older generation who always had time to spend with me, sharing what they had, teaching what they knew, praying for answers they didn't have, relying on faith to see them through.
I hope they know how much I miss them still. Their lives mattered, and so did the house.
