If I could talk

If walls could talk, if I could talk, I would tell you about her……

Sunlight streams in through the old window. The soft gold rays highlight the place where she used to sleep. Dust hangs weightless in the air. The room becomes ethereal and rose-colored as if the mood was meant to match the memory, perfectly. I can almost hear the lullabies playing on the mobile that used to hang above her crib, stars and moons in pinks and blues. The song would play over and over and over again. It had no words, but I remember the tune. I hum it sometimes in the middle of the dark, in the middle of the night, in my mind.

Of course, she’s not there anymore, but it seems like yesterday. I wish it was still yesterday when it was her bubbly laughter that filled this room and not the silence. The silence broken only by the creaks and moans of myself and of my brothers and sisters around me. The constant echoes of my ever-antiquing age; of my obsolete-ness.

I used to stand so strong. I used to proudly hold the art she drew. And once in a while, I got to be the canvas as well. That was before her parents painted over it, all while chastising her for it. I think I can almost feel the outline of the flower. If I could mimic the bright smile, she made…. The pride. Before it faded to the tears erasing all that was before. If you could have only seen the strength I mustered to hide her within my safety that night. That night, and many others. If she was still here, I would still give her every ounce of strength I have left to protect her again.

These dry bones aren’t what they used to be though. The chips of paint fall to my baseboards leaving age marks on my face. I am not as beautiful as I once was. Maybe that is why she left.

I watched her grow and she watched me age. I gave her a home and she gave me a reason to live. I stood beside her every day and, she…. she walked away.

The sunlight is turning to shadows as I wander my rolodex of life. Time doesn’t matter much anymore. It is no longer sectioned out by the landmarks of soccer wins and failed exams, hook ups and break ups, her birth and birthdays. By her.

Did you hear that? Or was it my revelry. That sound… A key? It can’t be. No one has walked these floors since, well since I don’t know when. What is time to a wall?

I hear footsteps too. Too many to be just one person. It isn’t a daydream! Brother, sister, who is it? Is it her?

They are almost here… and I see her. 3 years old and in mismatched boots. She stares at me and now I know that I must be dead. Is there a wall heaven? She left here at 18 and there’s no way that….

She rounds the corner fully grown. I hear her say, “This was my room when I was your age.” She crouches down next to the child, the spitting image of a little girl whose picture I proudly held till the last day.

“And here…” she pauses as she comes closer. She picks off some of the remaining paint chips on my skin. “And here is the flower I drew!”

If I could talk…. If I could cry… If I could crumble around this girl who was my whole world. But I can’t. So I just stand there and soak this in as if my life depended on it. It does depend on it.

The little girl laughs and touches the flower. I feel alive again. I feel whole again.

The two girls walk around talking about the room: The older one recalling her younger years, the younger one taking it all in. They leave after a while but not before she leans her head against me with her hand on my wall and whispers “thank you.”

If this wall could only talk it would say, “the pleasure has been all mine.”