The house on the hill

Once upon a time on a grassy hill stood a yellow wood house surrounded by mighty maples. In the spring the trees gave the children Polly noses to play with.  In the summer the trees turned the warm days comfortable shady.  In the fall the children watched  ruby, amber and gold leaves as they floated through the air. In late winter metal buckets got hung and the trees tapped for syrup to pour over pancakes on Sunday morning.

In the house lived a woman and a man. She sang as she scrubbed the smooth pine floors with sand and soap. She sang as she kneaded the dough. She sang as she milked the four brown and white cows in the barn. She sang when she sat on the porch and cleaned the vegetables. She sang as she washed her man’s back in the bath on Saturday night when he had come home from the factory on his bike. And she sang to her children. Sang tears away. Sang fights away. Sang them to sleep.

The children, three brown eyed like their father and two blue eyed as their mother. Annemarie, Greta and Lillian lived in the room up under the roof.  One year apart, curly haired, their father’s princesses. He had taken the bike to town and picked out the pale pink paint for the walls. The boys still small, slept together in the pull out bed in the kitchen. Over their bed hung a mobile. Closest to the ceiling the bright sun, then the birds, the animals and only a few feet from their faces green striped fish.

 At night the man listened to the radio in the kitchen. Heard voices and words.

 That sometimes filled him with joy. “And it is a homerun.”

Sometimes with worry. “The draught is now widespread. We desperately need some rain.”

 Sometimes with fear. “Today we have declared war…”

The family was a lucky family. The children grew, the rains came. No one was drafted to a war far away. And under the mighty maples many homeruns ended in cheers.

The house was a proud house. In the winter its walls protected the woman, the man and the children from the fierce cold and never did its roof leak.  It might need a nail at times or some oil on a creaking door but it was a sturdy good house. In warmer days the wind moved through the open windows and filled its inside with pride.

 And the house was a happy house because inside its walls the fights were short; even though they were intense at times they all ended with laughter and hugs. At night it listened to bedtime stories and then the children’s content sleeping sighs. The walls picked up the tender words the man and woman murmured as they lay in each other arms.

The house watched the children grow. The three girls moved in unison. A hurricane of dark curly hair and screaming laughter.  The boys blonde and calm followed their mother’s footstep, down to the barn, out in the woods, back to the kitchen.

The house watched the limbs grow longer and slimmer. Watched the falls, the scrapes and the bumps. Ached with the woman and man when the children feel ill. Huddled over them.  One by one the house watched the children leave. And then return with husbands and wives. Watch the man and the woman walk in the empty house. Unsure at first in the silence and the empty rooms but then relish the two.

The house was there when the first grandchild was brought home. The man swell with pride and the woman cradle the baby in her arms. Hushing and singing the new brown eyed baby to sleep.  Once again the house would be filled at times with running feet, loud laughter and bedtime stories.

One of the first frost nights one autumn, the house saw Death approach. He walked up the hill and entered through the unlocked kitchen door. Death sat by the bedside and watched the man and the woman sleep deeply. Saw the white hair, the wrinkles and the intertwined hands. This night he had come for the man. Death never regrets taking a life. No one ever asks the sun if she regrets setting or rising every day.

The woman mourned the way you mourn after a long, happy life together; absentmindedly. She still talked to the man. She still made the bed for two. She still looked out the window at a quarter to five to see if he possible was coming up the hill with his bike. She didn't cry much. Perhaps she knew she wouldn't be too long. A warm summer afternoon she sat on the porch with the cat in her lap when Death came. Scared the cat jumped down and ran to hide but the woman took Death’s hand and gladly left with him.

The house was now empty for the first time since it was built. An unusual feeling for the house.  A For Sale sign was put up down by the road. People came and went. Opened doors. Slammed cabinets. Poked walls. The house waited.

One day a moving truck drove up the hill. A man, a woman, a little girl and two cats. The little girl ran up to the pink room under the roof and opened the window. Then ran down again. The house cherished her footsteps.