If these walls could talk,
Their voices would crack like the floorboards beneath your feet,
Worn down by years of footsteps
that carried love and loss in equal measure
They’d tell of love,
The kind that lingers in the scent of Sunday dinners,
The faint echo of a lullaby,
The creak of a rocking chair swaying long after the baby’s grown
They’d hum with the rhythm of life—
Pulsating with the heart-drum of a family piecing themselves together,
one imperfect day at a time
They’d whisper of quarrels,
loud as thunder at the time,
but now softened like rain,
falling gently, nourishing the roots of forgiveness
Voices raised, slamming doors,
but always opening again
with hands reaching, arms wide, inviting—
“Come back, sit down, let’s talk”
Broken-down boards,
their edges splintered but still holding steady
Leaking ceilings,
stubbornly letting light drip through the cracks
Rusted shingles,
their jagged edges like scars,
each one a story of resilience
Stripping paint,
layers peeling back to reveal
every shade of life lived inside—
a kaleidoscope of memory
And yet—
Inside regales of a beauty that still blooms
Faded wallpaper like the backdrop of dreams
Grandma’s patchwork quilt draped over the couch
Stitched together from cloths of generations past
Created by hands that believed in warmth, in home, in staying
If these walls could talk,
they’d tell you this:
Even in decay,
there is grace
Even in ruins,
there is history
And even when the frame sags under its weight,
a house holds its beauty in the love it has sheltered
So listen—
To the silence that speaks volumes
Listen to the cracks that echo strength
listen to the walls that have always stood,
not for themselves
but for the stories they protect
If only these walls could talk
You may also like: “If These Lips Could Talk”
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In creative solidarity, Dee
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