A Resting Place or a Home?
A Resting Place or a Home? house stories
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sarahedwardesbo
sarahedwardesbo Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   2 months ago
There was a village, a quaint beautiful village, There was a house, surrounded by blossom and growing cabbages,

A Resting Place or a Home?

There was a village, a quaint beautiful village,

There was a house, surrounded by blossom and growing cabbages,

In that house there was a painting, a painting of a young man,

Who looked down on the family at the dinner table as they ate roast potatoes, vegetables and smoked ham,

The family were happy and the home was a buzz of activity,

Laughter filled the air with jokes they all shared, jokes they found funny,

The smell of home made bread, pies, cakes and all manner of delicious things wafted through the air,

Siblings played with marbles together on the floor,

The father would walk up to the house after work and he would see light shining in the windows, illuminating the windows against the night sky,

Inside he would hear the baby cry,

And as he would open the front door the warmth would envelop him,

He would feel a lovely tingly feeling vibrate through every limb,

With such contentment he would willingly walk through the hallway to meet his family within,

When he saw them, he would be brimming with pride,

A wide grin he could never hide,

Many years passed and all of the family members finished their time on earth,

The family passed down the house from generation to generation with every birth,

It's now modern day and the house has completely changed,

Things have been pulled down and replaced, the garden has been formally arranged and most of the grass has been pulled up and paved,

To allow a flock of cars to descend upon it,

So all the family cars will fit,

One of the only things that remains is the painting of the young man

Still hung in the same place, where meals were eaten, especially roast lamb.

How that painting is still on the wall is a miracle,

Because the room the painting is in looks different from every angle,

It houses a sparkling clean marble table which hardly gets used,

Sometimes the father will sit at this table on his own as he thinks about life,

There is a hard wooden floor and a scattering of contemporary art on the wall,

The collection of ornaments is small,

This room is empty most of the time,

The clock in the hallway lets out an eerie chime,

Now when the father, in the modern day, walks towards the house,

All is dark and feels unsafe, like someone could jump out from behind the hedge and pounce.

All is still and no one resides within,

There is no sound, the father can hear not one thing,

Apart from the sound of the door handle turn and the door swing into the untouched hallway,

He fumbles around for the light switch so things don't feel so grey,

The light flicks on and provides an artificial sense of warmth but it is stunted and doesn't provide the comfort he craves,

As his sense of disappointment flows in waves,

Everything is left in the same place as this morning,

The tap in the sink is dripping,

The air wraps him in its chilly embrace,

Making it feel like a hollow and barren place,

His wife is at work and not home for a while,

She has a commute over many miles,

His children are at friends houses, not wanting to be in the house alone,

But when they come home they will probably go to their room and be on their phones.

The father goes into the kitchen and pulls a meal out of the freezer,

The food in the fridge is meager,

He makes his way to the dining room where the painting is,

Wishing his wife were at home, his wife named Liz,

Sitting in silence eating his food at an uninhabited table he reflects on his life,

And how he hardly sees his children and wife,

He feels like they don't really know each other now,

Often when they are around each other it will turn into a row,

Everyone is so busy and stressed,

Rushing around in the morning to get dressed,

He looks up at the painting of the young man, one of his ancestors, and wonders how life was when he was alive,

Did his family really know each other?

Did they spend much time together? Was the house truly alive and did they all thrive?

As the father looks away, the young man in the painting gives a small wink,

At what the father was beginning to think,

The young man in the painting has stored memories from long ago,

Over the decades he has seen the lights in the windows slowly diminish and completely go,

He holds the knowledge of a long lost family life,

Where husband frequently saw his wife,

Where children were present in the house and not just in their rooms,

But together in the hub of the house, this is what they would choose,

With pity the young man in the painting looks down,

As the father gets up from the table with a frown,

He flicks off the light and descends into the house to wait for the rest of the family to return,

Hoping all are ok out there in the dark, he feels great concern,

Is this house now just a resting place or is it a home?

Is its heart still there or is it just bricks and stone?

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