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.
