There is a house that is so well worn by the elements and occupants, the building is little more that just standing. The window panes droop in the rotting wood of their sills making the outside world pry with cold and wet fingers to get to the barely sustained warmth within. Layers upon layers of white caulk have long since sealed most of the windows permanently into walls of the house and the few that swing open on hot summer days hang raggedly on their hinges. Black mold and moss layers the inside and outside sills, further rotting the wood into flaky splinters.

The house’s stark exterior is bleached white by the ever beating sun in the summer and the blistering winds in the winter. A few shingles cling to the roof of the house like the few straggles of hair a balding man has. The others that used to protect the house from rain and snow have long been ripped off by the never ceasing wind that torments the poor old building. Bits of bright yellow foam jutt from beneath and between the cracks of the windows and the sills. The narrow walkway beneath the east facing window of the kitchen is uneven cinderblocks that totter precariously when stepped on and have been chipped away by lawnmower and rain alike.

The interior is began by a makeshift door frame that has been stuffed with pink insulation to keep the cold at bay. A tiny laundry room is just to the right of the door but is given the appearance of a messy closet with six people’s clothes scattered around the room and a litterbox in the middle of the floor. A washing machine and a dryer sit vacant for the first time since they had been purchased. The small room has a distinct smell of vanilla and spring breeze made stronger by the constant heat from the furnace in a corner of the room. 

To the left of the door is a kitchen with a table and six chairs that are too large for the small house. Shoes are clustered beneath the window next to the door but spill over into the walkway outlined by a few tattered rugs. A wooden bench resides next to an inner wall narrowing the kitchen’s length by two feet. The silver fridge nestled in a cubby facing east is littered with notes, schedules, bills, and pictures long forgotten. Above and to the left of the fridge wrapping all the way around the kitchen are worn cupboards with chips in the wood from where the doors have refused to adhere to their magnetic latches. The sink overflowing with dirty dishes has gashes in the porcelain from broken dishes and overuse. In the small kitchen, there is a ringing of old laugher and a feeling of warmth.

The largest room of the house is a cluttered living room. With a couch on the inner wall, an arm chair on the south wall, and a love seat placed beneath a large bay window, the large room is quickly made tiny by the leather furniture. An overflowing bookshelf and an antique table are situated in opposing corners forcing the room smaller still. The main television set of the house is perched upon an old end table whose doors shut unevenly because of the number of movies kept within. Behind the main television is an antique desk that holds up a gaming system and another television. On either side of the gaming desk, there are a pair of old radios that have long since died and serve as a perch for the few cats that wander the house. The living room echoes with the arguments and movies watched while the televisions reflect thousands of wrestling matches.

Down the hallway the bathroom is clean but multiple towels line racks hung off the door. The porcelain bathtub is stained red from the iron and hard water the house labors to drag up from its well. A small plant grows on the inside of the window to the bathroom. It’s roots visible through a few inches of water stained wood where the white tile of the shower has fallen away to reveal the interior of the house. An acidic smell seems to seep into the room from the floor making it impossible to rid the room of the unpleasant smell. The large mirror that stretches across an inner wall is splattered with toothpaste and streaked where the condensation had been wiped away when the residents were in a rush.

Across the hallway from the bathroom is a bedroom with white walls whose primary occupants were of the opposite sex. A few of her items lined shelves hanging off the walls while a bookshelf held more trinkets as well as a formidable collection of books from every genre. His items lay in a corner of the room keeping the division of the room around the middle. The hardwood floor had been scuffed by frequent trafficking in front of the shared antique dresser. The tight room spoke of late nights doing homework for her and a quiet place for him.

The other two rooms were similar in size and shared by two people too, however, the individuals who shared were husband and wife while the other were two brothers. While the brothers’ room was a mess and smelled of oil and bluntly like dirt, the spouses’ room was usually clean except for the gigantic king sized bed that took up most of the room’s space. Both rooms held closets that were overflowing with clothes that ranged anywhere from threadbare to never worn. The final touch in each room were the shattered windows that sagged deeply into their sills looking very much like wilting flowers.

The house I’ve described would be labeled by most as a hazard and many still would refuse to live there under any circumstances. I have lived in this house for eighteen years and all the memories I have in between these tattered four walls could never be pried from me. The decaying windows hold the memories of being rained on in the middle of the night and watching small plants sprout from between cracks. The clustered laundry room holds every memory of every sport my three brothers and I have ever played. Next to the laundry room, the kitchen describes late nights of my father’s friends gathering and being unbearably loud. The living room projects a close family and more than just one scuffle between my brothers and I. In the bathroom’s misted over mirror you can see the multiple nights my mother stayed awake with us children when we were sick. My room across from the bathroom hold the memories of throwing a pillow at my little brother to tell him I was changing and he should not look under any circumstance. The other two bedrooms, my parents’ and my brothers’, are the two places we as a family would gather on Sundays to lay lazily talking until it was time to get up and start the day. This house is old and falling into ruins but it will always stand, untouched by time in all of its decaying splendor, in the recesses of my mind.