The old house stood empty and alone, neglected and worn by time. Tattered pink curtains, wafted in the fall breeze from behind the windows blind. Broken promises and shattered dreams, this old house seemed to scream. Gone are the children, the husband and wife that brought this hollow wooden vessel life. Now in the fading evening light, If one looks close and listens well, one can see and hear the tales that this house has to tell. It speaks of hot summer days and how the family would sit on the (now) broken down porch and the children would laugh and play, while papa would crank the ice-cream churn. Oh the stories that this old house could tell. It would speak of how papa fell ill and tell of the tears that were shed, when papa passed on and went to join the dead, or it might even say how little Suzy, depressed from papa's death, refused to eat and no longer cared to play. Oh what sadness that these walls bear. Now alone in this field of gray, it bears silent witness to another day. Days of grief and nights of sorrow, for it's inhabitants are now all gone, and nothing is left for this lonely house which used to be called "home", now just sits in silence and decays

J. Allen Wilson 2003