Morning light filtered through the tattered drapes on to well-worn hardwood floors. Memorized paths between the kitchen, couch, and bathroom forever etched and discolored. The cherished Siamese cat waiting on the couch. Everything as it should be. The remote rests on the coffee table next to the TV Guide waiting to be used. Last night’s crumb filled plate sits precariously on the edge of the television stand. Everything is still and quiet.
Echos of children’s laughter and family movie night reflect unheard off the smoky walls. Flies and ants go about their daily lives just as they always did. They don’t see any thing different. Everything is as it should be. As it always was.
Photographs of years gone by line the hall to the bedrooms. Helen and Franklin became family trips to Disneyland, then ballet and football sidelines, and first photos as Grandma and Grandpa. If only the walls could talk. Oh, the stories they could tell. Of secret kisses and whispered wishes.
Swim trunks and beach towels hang in the bathroom. Waiting for a new day. Lives forever lived in the rooms of this house. Hopes and dreams of generations absorbed in the floral wallpaper.
The drapes in the back bedroom where Matthew has lived since his grandparents passing are closed, but the gently falling snow can be seen through a top gap between panels. Clothes and remnants of life litter the once plush carpet. Arguments and demands for solitude echo through the room as it replays its occupants life. Matthew forever in bed, staring at the ceiling. Once happy and free, then bound in ever-growing chains, he finally found the solitude he desired.