Walls That Whisper

I woke to the last chimes of eight and the quiet ticking of the clock on the dresser. Putting on a robe so as not to frighten those below, I descended the stairs to the kitchen. The brew pot cold and the drapes still drawn, something is out of rhythm-the master of the house is gone. As the drapes are opened and light pours in, the water comes to a boil. Sitting at the kitchen table, the only sounds come from the walls. They speak of a time gone by, good and bad, happy and sad, the parties occurred, and the deaths announced. Family and friends found, and others lost. All that has happened under this roof is found in the walls.

The clocks chime the bottom of the hour. How does one live in a house, alone, without walls that whisper of time gone by? For it is the joyous whispers that carry one from this time of silence to the next great gathering.

Loneliness awaits those with walls that do not whisper, but for now, tea is ready.