Generational Walls

If walls could talk, some would tell of the countless generations that passed through their halls, the cry of a newborn, the stampeding of tiny feet, the raucous laughter of family gatherings, or the silent escapades through forbidden windows. Or the battle scars they wore proudly until new mortar and paint altered their appearance to accommodate the changing times. Unfortunately, there aren't always happy moments and celebrations.

For me, a short time ago, the very air seemed vibrant and carefree, tragedy struck, and the miasmic misery saturated my rooms. Their emotions battered my walls, and I groaned under the weight of their—our—loss. I watched as their world dimmed, and in return, I fell into disrepair. Laughter turned into shouted arguments, dinner plates turned into weapons, and words used like knives instead of comfort and love.

I watched as two became one, and the steady flow of loving support evaporated like water on a hot day. I watched as denial became an obsession. The thumbtacks, news articles, and yarn now decorated my walls where family portraits and hand-drawn pictures once hung. There were only the lone ramblings of the sole occupant that roamed my desolate halls. Passerbys threw distasteful looks at my crumbling facade, and cherished neighbors either stayed away or stopped to stare. Nothing was ever the same again.

Eventually, they found the unmoving form of the last of my family. They took him away, wailing into the night air announcing his departure. The echos of a time past my companion until I finally laid dormant.

***

"I'm telling you, Jared, it has character. Once we break down that wall to the kitchen, that'll open the space up."

"I don't know, babe. This house needs a lot of repairs, and it's a bit out of our budget."

"I know, but I absolutely love it. With an extension at the back, it would be the perfect space for my workshop, plus the neighborhood is so quaint. It's perfect."

"We'll talk to the realtor and see if we can get a price reduction."

"Thank you, hun!"

My walls shook with the reverberations of the sledgehammers, the pounding footsteps, and the voices slowly drew me from my slumber. I stood gutted, my innards and imperfections for the world to see. Then meticulously, piece by piece, I was made new.

"I have to say, babe. You did well. It doesn't look like the house we viewed all those months ago."

"See? I told you! But—Come that a look at this. We have a slow leak in my workshop. We'll have to break into the wall to find the leak, and we don't have the funds to buy replacement blocks."

"Don't worry. I have a friend who may have spares from a recent renovation."

A load of blocks arrived as promised. The two workers carefully patched the broken section, and as they laid the last block, I trembled to my foundation.

"Hey, Phil, did you feel that?"

"Feel what?"

"I don't know, but I could've sworn—never mind, think I'm going crazy. I need a drink."

There, a nugget of consciousness so small and insignificant, embedded in the last block. Its awareness tried to expand beyond its meager existence, and like a candle, I snuffed out that spark. And along with its extermination, the beginning of the end, the turmoil and destruction of my previous family were made clear. For all walls, the catalysts for our sentients are the emotions expressed by our families, temporary occupants, and guests.

That brief moment of contact flooded me with the last image of the boy I safeguarded and watched as he grew from boy to man. Unceremoniously dumped in a cement mixer and then forgotten. Not anymore; though he is lost, his memory will live on in my walls.