The House on Heron Street

Sometimes, I think that I have been here forever like one of those speeches that seem to go on and on...

I remember when I was first constructed, how everything was so new and exciting.  The birds, and the trees, and grass, so green it looked as though it had been painted with the soul of the color itself.  And the sky!  A rich vivid blue went beyond description.  Oh, I could have stared at the sky for years, and indeed, I did just that.  Then I turned my attention to watch the people and the animals working, loving, and dying while I sat, silent as a stone.

For I am stone, stone and wood and glass with nails that hold me together.  No cardboard thin walls for me, not like these modern houses.  They spring up only to fall back down again, in a few decades.  And such tiny things!  I, myself, have tall spiraling steps that go so high I am surprised angels have not descended down them and a roof, tall and pointy as though it were dough someone had pinched and pulled.  I have large windows in the front to let in the long, lazy rays of sun, but the windows in the back are tiny, tiny like the heart of the angry, sad, man who walks within me.

I am not sure why he is so angry but I understand his sorrow.  I was there, years ago, when a young boy I had never seen before murdered his wife.

The boy came on a cold fall day, presenting a false façade to the wife, pretending to be a peaceful boy, a respectful, honorable boy.  I noted that he was thin to the point of ribs sticking out from his thin t-shirt and his hair was longer than most humans kept it, but I did not consider it important.  But, then, I saw him slip the knife in his pocket when she was not looking and it was I, who knew him for what he was, who could not call out.  When the knife fell a great feeling of horror came over me.  My floors were bathed in blood.  My center held a corpse.  A transgression had been committed and I had done - could have done - nothing.   

When the man came home, I could not warn him of going inside, could not warn him that his beloved wife was lying on the floor she had cleaned that morning, laying within me, bleeding like a heart broken in true love.

You might ask what a house would know of love or sorrow.  How could you know when you do not hear us, when we cannot speak to you in a language that you would understand?  Do you not think a flower cries its petals each time one of its siblings is picked, or a tree, wrap and shelter a lost child to keep them safe?  So why can I not weep for an owner lost?  I do.  I weep endless tears like the rain that splashes against my clear, glass windows.  And I will go on standing, a house crying endless tears and a man pacing through my halls plotting, planning, for justice and revenge.

I know in the end what will happen.  I have seen it before.  These fragile creatures, so delicate a small stone could kill them, will wither away without their mate.  They cannot exist; it seems, without a companion.  And when the man picks up a knife there will be nothing I can do.  Nothing but watch, watch the death continue, watch the blood flow, watch, cry, and move on.  For I am a house and can do nothing but watch.