Dying House

On my way to work I pass a sad patch of land that used to be fertile farmland. A couple of months ago I noticed that it had become over-run by weeds and tall grasses. Then the large equipment came to clear the land. I was pleased to see the elimination of weeds, but then more equipment arrived to move around the dirt.

“Oh,” I groaned. “Not another new housing development!”

Day by day the machinery changes the landscape of the vast field. New trucks, stones and port-o-pots arrive daily. It grieves me to see the beautiful open land turned into yet another cookie cutter community.

Perhaps the saddest part, though, is the old farmhouse at the edge of the field. I had not noticed it before the beginning of the development. Now it stands alone as a reminder of what used to be. It must be old, but how old I cannot tell. It appears to have been abandoned for years. The paint has all but fallen off the wood slats. A window or two is broken. Ever so slowly the face of the house slips overcome by the grayness of despair.

What a lonely state for a house.

“Why do they let it suffer like that?” I wonder on my way to work.

“Why not take a wrecker ball and put it out of its misery?” I ask on my way home, when I notice that half of the porch now hangs as if by a thread and I can see the storm clouds through the cracks in the walls.

The whole world goes on around it. Cars race passed; trucks move dirt around it in preparation for new houses, but the farmhouse remains-- dieing a little more very day with no one except for me to notice.

Sometimes I feel like that house.

I drove by the house yesterday. It was with mixed emotions that I discovered it leveled to the ground-- relief for the end of its suffering, yet a sadness for the loss of a friend. All that remained by the end of the day was a pile of old stone foundation. Its face had already been carted away.
I feel a place of emptiness where the old farmhouse once stood. I wanted them to tear it down to put it out of its misery, but now I wish that they had nursed it back to life instead. A lump rose in my throat for I could not stay to mourn. But as a ship passing in the night continued down the road%