Worn By Time

Several times a week I walk through a neighborhood not far from my own. I find myself drawn to the mix of old and new. There are beautifully restored Victorian homes, as well as newly constructed ones trying to mimic them. There are large, gated mansions that leave me awestruck. Townhouses and row houses, of both traditional and modern designs, are popping up everywhere. My favorites are the bungalows, I'm sure also of a variety of ages, because they are the most welcoming to me. They often have porch swings, rockers or over-sized Adirondack chairs that seem to be extending an invitation to sit and relax a spell. Plants, framed stained glass, ornate crosses and other personal touches often add to the home's warm character.

Of course, the pictures I'm sharing today are not of any homes previously described. There are homes like this one, left behind and decaying, scattered among the new and refurbished. Though to most it would seem an eyesore, I was glad I had the opportunity to see it before it was torn down and replaced with something newer and grander.

There is a history that I will never know. I can't help but try to envision this dwelling as it was before the paint started to peel and the wood started to rot. Did a couple sit on a porch swing, drinking lemonade and reminiscing about their day, before the railing fell away and the steps caved? Did an American flag hang, proudly blowing in the breeze, accompanying the patriotic plaque by the door? Did colorful flowers bloom from the ceramic pots left behind? Could the laughter of children be heard behind the now boarded up windows?

Pigeons are now living among the rafters; I could hear their calls and the ruffling of feathers as they wrestled uncomfortably with my presence. A ladder and pails were left behind, possibly by someone making one final effort at saving a home which had already deteriorated beyond salvation. Even though the house was obviously empty and a no trespassing sign warned intruders to keep their distance, there was still a spirit begging not to be forgotten.

I walked away, with my photographs and my thoughts, just a bit melancholy.