I was proud and promised a bright future

I remember the day I first opened my eyes; can you call windows eyes? The men who built me worked with hands roughened by years of manual labor. They spoke in low voices, humming tunes I would come to memorize through the decades. Every board they placed, every nail they drove, felt like a promise: I was created for them, a family.
You would say that seeing me now, that I am old, run-down, and beyond historic. If you were able to peek into my interior, there may even be remnants of what was once modern times. Fresh paint had adorned my skin; wallpaper took the place of hats or bows. The wood gleamed from the passing of many hands over rails, frames, and doorknobs. Curtains told of personalities and gatherings as the whispered breezes wafted through my window eyes. Corners often told of corrections and time-outs as the dust bunnies skittered away.
My porches and verandas pounded with eager footsteps and quiet tiptoes of late dates. Of stories told plus a few long tales hard to believe. Tears were cried here over war news and victories. Greetings to new friends and goodbye to old ones. Oh, how many pets lounged here and heard the tales from their little ones. I miss the rocking chairs and swings removed long ago. Oh, and the night visitors that they never knew about.
As the decades rolled on, new inventions found their way through my doors. I remember the day electricity arrived. The family stood proudly, marveling as the first light bulb flickered to life. The energy humming through me was like a strange new heartbeat. The children, now grown-up, starting families of their own, gasped at the brightness that pushed back the shadows in my corners that I had known for so long.
How the novelty of a switch quickly changed everything. The evenings of visiting, music, and games began to fade as more inventions using that current started to take them away from each other and me. Slowly at first, quickening through the decades. My outside started to reflect my inside, a bit neglected at times. They were so busy that they often forgot to take care of my basic needs.

The world outside changed faster than I could keep track of. Automobiles rumbled past where horses had once trotted. The dirt road where hooves, paws, claws, and feet had trodden became gravel, then hard pavement. Strange, the sounds of them coming and going began to lengthen. So much stillness in between. I felt more like just a fancy place for sleeping and less like a part of their lives, somewhat strangers in the dark.
New families owned me over time. I watched grandchildren toddle across the same floors parents raced over, their tiny hands smudging my windows with curiosity. Each generation left its mark—scuffs, nail holes, dings, and dents. Some repainted me; others tore my bones apart and repositioned them. Sometimes I received clear, cleaner eyes or a new roof to keep the weather at bay. I began to feel some aches as my foundation settled, and my wrinkles showed up as cracks. Some of them within me began to age as much as I had.
I tried to comfort them the only way a home can—by holding steady in the storms of life, by keeping them warm in the winters, remembering the echoes of voices within me. A pause in the rhythm I had known for so long. They did not think of me as they slammed doors, running late for work or the school bus. I wonder if they thought of me when they were gone. Were they happy to see me when they came back? Sometimes, though, I could sense my value begin to lessen in their eyes. Were they no longer proud of me?
I began to stand empty longer and longer. Dust gathered where sunlight used to fall on busy hands and bustling feet. The wind creaked through me, leaving shuttering sounds on occasion. Is this what it means to grow old waiting? Listening, hoping someone would return. I felt like many of the older ones of them looked as they aged.
Today, my eyes have often been damaged; the ground calls to reclaim that from which I was formed. My bones creak and groan. The dust bunnies have been replaced by grime, dirt, and the fur of animals that searched me for shelter. My skin is dried and cracked, peeling away my layers. The layers that told stories through the ages in styles and tastes. My roof leaks, and my foundation leans. I was once a proud home with a bright future. The only brightness now is the sun’s rays circling me inside and out.
Not all is lost, though. I realized that families change, decades shift, and memories fade, a home’s greatest gift is its ability to hold all of it—past and present—under one roof. I remain what I have always been: a witness, a keeper, a quiet companion to the lives unfolding within my walls. As you look at me, I hold more memories than you will ever know.