THE HEART OF THE HOUSE

 

In the dark caves left when the House was boarded up,

It was cold.

Her heart was beating slower than ever,

Gone were the people

Who used to turn on

The icy radiators in the cold winter months.

The House had nothing to do;

They had taken away the television,

And they had thrown away the board games,

And she could barely hear

The twitter of the birds

That used to perch on her windowsill,

Only felt the faint pitter patter of their feet

When they wandered on her roof.

Or was it the mice?

Or was it the rain?

There wasn't really any light left to see at all,

So the house tried to remember what light looked like.

She imagined its warmth, clarity, and safety.

The House imagined it could once again feel a human’s warmth,

Or that she could hear the rumbling growl of the kettle,

Like that of a beast, heating up the water with its wrath,

But different to the roar of the washing machine,

Or the groan of the microwave,

Or the gurgle of the pipes,

Which had been silent for some time now.

All these things that kept her heart strong were gone;

The House missed tricking the little ones

Into thinking there were monsters at night.

The House missed the jungle of her kitchen appliances.

The House yearned the rich scent of coffee,

The striking aroma of spices

That used to billow from his kitchen,

So strong she could almost taste them,

Followed shortly

By the enthusiastic cries of delight and satisfaction

And clinking of forks on dishes.

Those very dishes had been taken away as well,

Leaving only the empty shelves and cupboards,

Who missed the weight they used to carry.

And the house thought,

That even though it might have been annoying

When the little grandchildren drew on its walls,

Or when the cat scratched at its doors,

Or even when the postman woke her up in the morning,

Carelessly shoving bills through her letterbox.

It was better than this silence,

This void in her heart left by the people who called her Home,

Not House.

So House would wait.

She would wait until someone came back

To open the curtains every morning

And oil her doors when they would complain.

To warm her heart once more,

The same way she warmed their hearts

One day,

House truly hoped it could happen.

After all, what else was there to do but hope?

  (Emma Dimitrova, 13 years old)