By: Ute Carson
My wife and I occupied this house for 55 years.
My parents restored it following the Great Depression.
We have shared the cooking, the cleaning,
kept the yard trimmed and the roses flourishing.
When the sun streams through our tall bay windows
the laughter of children and grandchildren
cascades along its golden beams.
When the rain pelts the shingles on the roof
or a storm rattles the wooden shutters,
we remember huddling together during hard times.
Although the old house is showing pockmarks and wrinkles,
echoes from our lives reverberate from cellar to chimney top.
When my wife died six months ago
lucrative offers from realtors rolled in.
But I can’t leave. She still lives here,
along with all those who came before us.