Time for another Free Write Friday! This house has a story, what is it?
The warm rays of yet another sun rising over the horizon slowly awakened the old, dilapidated farmhouse. Her boards creaked and groaned as she settled into a more comfortable position. The sun, shining on the gray paint, which was once white, illuminates the areas where it has peeled and exposed the naked boards beneath. The old farmhouse is deteriorating slowly: shingles gone after every storm, the second-level porch sagging on its supports, half the shutters now missing. She remembered when she was young, vibrant, and full of life. Then, she was home to a family of humans and not the current one of raccoons living in her cellar.
She could easily remember those days. Her family filled every corner of her then—maybe too many people for that one house—and two generations had been born and raised there. Of the many people who had romped through her halls, one person always stood out as special to her. His name was John.
Her loyalty laid not to the man who had created her, painstakingly building her from scratch, but to his grandson, John. John loved the house, and she loved him. She remembered when he carved his name into her side stating that she was “forever and always his house.” He would leave—for college, to visit his fiancé, or for extended trips—but he would always return. The last time he left, he was old and gray—much like she was now.
John’s children had convinced him he couldn’t remain in the house any longer. He was frail and no longer able to care for her as he once did. When he left her walls for the final time, she didn’t know anything would be different. She believed he would one day return. The grass grew long, the seasons blended into years, yet she still waited. She waited for the day that John would return to her; bringing with him the warmth and love that she so desperately craved, never once contemplating that he wouldn’t.