THE HISTORY IN A HOUSE

 

This house, a mansion really, began its life for a single family. She sits on a corner plot, near, but not in the exact center of town. Her details are gracious, subdued, comfortable.

 

A prosperous husband, his wife, and his daughters lived there. I know there were daughters because of the balconies, the high staircase with the large landings, which are perfect for entrances & exits, to make impressions, to take breath away.

 

It must have begun in the nineteen-forties. The good times lasted until the Junta took the country and ruined it.

 

Things got better in the mid-seventies when the Junta left. The house was re-fitted with apartments; cheaper bathrooms were installed with unfinished kitchens. The economy boomed, briefly, then died again. So the renters moved back with their families.

 

Now it's a hostel. There are bunk beds, a big TV in what was the front solarium. But the stained glass sky light is still there, and the graceful proportions are the same as ever. In fact, the house still hums with hope of comfort, of better times—except when it rains and when the wind blows, of course. Then the dilapidation really shows, things crash down, buckets appear, you watch your step.

 

It's the hope that kills you, that kills you every single time.

Observations, After

©2008 Sorrowland Press and all respective artists within.