These walls have ears, eyes and memories

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In the basement, relics of the kids’ school days lie fallow. Even the sounds and smells of this house, our home, are unique. At night, the creak on the stairs is familiar as Zoe, our geriatric pup, slowly makes her way up to us.

Outside, a small stone dog marks the grave of Sheba, who lived in this house for 18 years.

The way the breeze blows through the porch on these summer nights — this small pleasure is repeated year after year. Come October, we close the windows, shut the door, and the porch waits for next spring, along with us.

No newcomer can knows these things about this home, and one cannot expect any stranger to care. I suppose I’m asking that those who come along and raze the old houses in this neighborhood take to heart that lives were lived inside the old structures.

If we ever sell our home, I would tell the newcomers the story of the house so that it would live on, not only in our hearts and minds, but also as part of the permanent history of this piece of land. If they tear down the walls and build others, I hope they remember that a creak on the stairs at night is just an old memory of a sweet dog making her way to bed.

Copyright © 2014 Randi Kreiss. Randi can be reached at randik3@aol.com.

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