It is a mistake to think of houses, old houses, as empty. They are filled with memories, with the faded echo of voices. (Roberts)
My imagination has always worked overtime, for good and not-so-good. I have always been one who could imagine the sound of footsteps behind me if I were walking on a dark street at night, or the crackling of brush as a hidden something follows me in the woods. And when I saw this old house, and I’m not even sure if it indeed is a house, it captured me with its atmosphere of moody, silent brooding. If I were to write a story about the house, I could imagine it filled with light and laughter and warmth, children and pets, guests coming and going. Now it sits on its somewhat desolate looking hill, alone, abandoned. Its time has past, and now it waits, but for what?
Perhaps it is not the house of which I am speaking, but rather myself. For so many years we wait for some future “something,” not quite realizing that life is happening all the time, not quite aware of the present moment until it’s past. Not aware that this present moment is my life . . .
I wonder sometimes if at heart, all of us are still 18, waiting for life to happen.