The House

Grudges, poison, abandoned houses. Never a good thing.

Think of it all as a house.

My mother always told me you could remodel the ugliest of houses,

to open a world of beauty upon their surfaces.

For that, we’ve always treated the houses we lived in as fellow human beings.

Stating some TLC was all they needed to feel happy again.

 

But then something awful would happen.

Every few years, we would move. We would upgrade.

And I would think to myself, 

“Oh god, what if the others don’t treat this house like we did?

What if, to them, it is merely a house?”

And I would say this; I would say this to my mother in a frantic panic.

And she would say she was sad too.

But that would be it.

 

We wouldn’t stop and turn around or take the house back.

The sold sign never left the yard.

And it was never to be seen again, once our shoulders turned.

That house now was left alone with complete strangers.

Serial killers, rapists, or just another family.

Either way, the house was once again left as a ghost.

A family it had grown accustomed to for years had again left it abandoned.

Desolate. Empty.

How terrible that had to feel.

How lonely, and how unwanted was that house?

 

And now that I’m growing older,

I’m beginning to wonder how in the hell that house couldn't hold a grudge?

I know I sure as hell do.

Author's Note

Oh heavens, feedback is always much appreciated!