Once a week I go out to do my errands; go grocery shopping, and the other essential things that I’m not able to do during the week. Whenever I go out for this purpose, I always take the same route, and on this route is a wonderfully grand house that no one seems to live in anymore. The house is huge, although this isn’t a rare quality in houses in this area, and it is not this quality that strikes my fancy. But it is huge, and should me mentioned whether it strikes my fancy or not, for it is part of it’s character in a way. What seems to me to set it apart from the other houses of it’s size is the history that seems so easy to perceive when looking at it. When you look upon this house, you can almost see from where it has come….you can hear the children laughing as they run from room to room, playing some childhood game; you can almost see the brilliant light coming from the windows when the dusk lays her dark veil upon the earth, and the warm fire glowing in the fireplace, warming the happy faces of those that live within. And sometimes, I can even imagine a garden, laden with the scent of roses and lavender, where a young man might have pledged eternal love to the young lady of his dreams, and then being met with sweet kisses from the cause of his adoration. It is indeed one of those houses…one where each birth and death, every joy and sorrow are somehow etched into every corner and niche. The house seemed to wear it’s history on it’s sleeve, so to speak…at least in my eyes.

A few days ago, when I was en route for my weekly errands, I looked for the house as I always do, in an attempt to guess something more from it’s past. I was met, instead, by a smoldering pile of rubble. Apparently this empty house had burned down the night before. I was aghast…it was an unbelievable sight to me and the realization of it’s being gone hit me like a blow. I found myself grieving for the ghosts of the past that were now no longer able to roam those hallowed halls that had played such an important role in their physical lives. And I also found myself grieving for me, for I would no longer be able to live vicariously though this house’s past, or at least what I had imagined that past to be. I was truly saddened over the whole thing…where shall the real memories that surrounded this house go? Is there anyone that remembers, and will share those lovely tidbits with the world? Or will this lonely, empty house be forgotten entirely in our chaotic and far too busy lives? If anything, the spirit of this glorious house shall live on in my heart, even if that spirit is only what I, myself, have concocted. The ghosts of yesteryear will live on within my imaginary memories, and the house itself will live on in it’s grand splendour, even if only within the confines of my sometimes-too-romantic imagination. At least it’s not a total loss, right?