I used to be beautiful, sleek, modern. I was among the pride of the neighborhood, surrounded by bright green grass and proud tall trees. In autumn, their leafy splendor overshadowed my dark brown roof. I had five spacious rooms and a white painted veranda which supported a rocking chair, and a double seated swing. Pots of geraniums hung from the rafters and many a neighbor spent long lazy afternoons on this porch. Friendly stories, lemonade and sugar cookie crumbs were present even on the warmest of days.
Today you see an overgrown yard full of weeds, scraggly tree roots, and broken beams. This appearance doesn’t tell you my story, my history, or the love these walls shared.