I am a house; a lonely house. It’s easy to see the swing set where the children played and to hear the broken chains which are rattling in the wind. If I try hard enough, I can hear the kids’ laughter and squeals as they chase each other around the yard. Oh, what memories!
The bushes are dying from lack of water and trim. The grass has grown high now; the weeds even higher. The weeds seem to be the only thing flourishing here.
No one is around to feel my pain and I am depressed. My paint is chipping and the screen door flaps open like a slap in the face. I am truly exposed.
Oh sure, sometimes people come around to look at me in the hopes of a bargain. Once they see me, though, all they say is “oh, my”. Then I am alone again until the next group of people come by, which isn’t very often, I must say.
My “family” left me in a hurry and they were angry, and so it seems they took it out on me. Where there were light bulbs, there are empty sockets. Where there were drapes, there is cracked glass. They punched the walls and caused holes, they kicked the stove, and they ripped out the furnace. It’s cold in here now; they took their warmth. I miss them and wish they would come back.
I’m owned by a bank now that only cares about my value as an asset. The bank doesn’t care about how beautiful I once was; they only see the bottom line. For them, I’m a number on a balance sheet; a page in their book which they would like to close.
I pray that someday someone sees what a beauty I can be. I pray that they bring with them hope, love, laughter, and peace. I pray they use my walls for making a better life. I pray that when they open my doors it's to come in and not to get out. I pray that they close my windows when it gets too cold. I pray that they cherish me and I cherish them.
I am but a house; a lonely house: a house in foreclosure, praying to become a home once again.