This Old House

If these walls could talk…
would they remember the warm summer nights, when the meadow was filled with fireflies? Would the faint echo of a child’s laughter be heard from the hallway? Surely they would recall the song of the sparrow heralding a new day from the fence post, and the chattering of chipmunks under the lilac.

What would they say about the apple trees? Would they recall the quiet whispers of a young couple as they sought shelter from the sun under its fruit laden boughs? Was the kitchen filled with the cheerful clatter of pots and pans while sweet smelling pies were being made for the harvest dinner?
Or, would the walls remember the night the screen door slammed with purpose, and pain, and finality? The words that couldn’t be taken back? The wind that found the chinks in the logs and whipped through the house, moaning with sorrow.