Lesson 8 prompt.35

 A knife, a pistol, two letters, and a pressed flower

The years took away its color. It used to be yellow. Not the glittery bright lemon kind but a deeper ecru shade, like a well worn silk. The subtle luster is gone now, replaced by brown streaks, like wrinkles on an aging face. The front door carved in dark wood took the worst hitting by the passing years; the wood dried and lost its color. Still it stands there, strong and proud, willing to fulfill its mission and guard against unwanted intruders, oblivious to the fact that there is no longer anyone to guard.

When it was abandoned the quiet crept from one room to another. Ice covered everything outside in the winter and in some places got inside. It climbed on the front steps, then under the door, and through the windows sills. Then the long painted glass window in the stairway shattered. It was very cold after that and at night the wind spilled in and swirled around, at times just toying with papers and old newspapers, moving them around, and other times shrieking and blowing the curtains wildly.

And then, in the spring, the rain came in and left small sparkling paddles everywhere on the kitchen floor. The burgundy rug turned deep blood color as it soaked the water. When the days became warmer the water evaporated but by then the wood floor got all stained and warped. The wood planks shifted, making soft crackling noises and creating cracks that kept growing and widening until the basement could be seen from every spot on the first floor.

What upset me more than anything, standing there, the house breathing around me, are the pictures, so many of them. Some framed and still hanging on the walls and many others in picture albums thrown all around, with their open pages facing the ceiling.  I lean forward and pick one of them. Black and white photos, yellowing around the edges, I wipe the dust off. That one draws my attention, a knife, a pistol, two letters and a pressed flower all lying on an old wooden table. I tuck the picture into my coat pocket and walk away. One day it will make a good story.