Some people walk in the rain, others just get wet.–Roger Miller
Drip, drip, drip. The sound echos through the lonely house. Walls now stand silent as the laughter that once filled its rooms have faded. The only noises that resonate in the houses mind are the pitter patter of small feet, they have been replaced by birds making nests in the hallows of the siding and bugs that jump on the windows.
Drip, drip, drip. Rain washing away the memories of when a family lived here and the house was warm and full of life. Now an empty shell of its former self, it longs to be filled with happiness once more. Instead dust falls like snow on the covered furniture that was left here to anyone who wanted move in.
The house sighs with the wind as it blows the summer rain onto its moldy shingles and waters the vines of ivy that have crept up the sides. The rockers on the front porch beg to be sat in and told of the days of tobacco farming and old men drinking ice tea. The swinging bench longs to be filled with teenage lovers experiencing their first kiss and little children falling asleep in grandma’s arms on warm summer nights. The kitchen is cold as stone and wants to be filled with smells of Thanksgiving dinner for 12 and a little girl trying to bake cookies for her mom’s birthday. The house creaks and moans, hoping someone will hear its cry for love. It is broken and lost without its heart. It’s family is gone and it wants to love again. Till then it remain empty, and cries silently with the summer rain.