These Fallin' and Talkin' Walls

                                                       

                                 These Fallin’ and Talkin’ Walls

                                         April Smith Hajjafar

A familiar face braved the vegetation overtakin’ my yard today. He pushed aside the weeds and overgrowth with an aluminum cane and made his way to the stone steps leadin’ up to the shell of my front porch. Despite years of change, I recognized him.

Those steps are the only reliable part of my structure now. They are the only safe part and they lead up to a mere skeleton. The boards of my porch have long since given in to the ravages of time. The roof over that porch, the roof that once provided shelter from the elements, has years ago sagged and fallen onto the skeleton of the boards of that floor. He climbs up those steps, my only safe structure remainin’ and stands on the edge of what is safe, on the verge of enterin’ what is not safe. I fear that he will attempt to further explore, but he simply stands there.

He stands there for several moments and he studies my remains. He sees the ruins that he once knew as a home. He sees the missin’ boards of my porch, the porch roof that now cants to the ground and is only boards. The tin that once covered my porch, that tin that once played a beautiful melody for the folks sittin’ on that porch durin’ a lovely summer rain; that tin has many years past been lifted by gusts of wind and blown away.

Thankfully, he does not try the boards of that porch to enter into one of my two front doors. He knows that I am no longer what I once was. Even though he would wish otherwise, he knows that I am not the haven that he once knew. He glances around my disintegration and I see the moisture in his eyes glint in the sun. I see that moisture gather in the corner of his eye and slip silently down his cheeks. And if I were human, the sorrow that I see in this familiar face would lead to tears slippin’ down my own cheeks as well.

I watch him standin’ there on the precipice of safety and then he closes his eyes. He closes them for several moments. He does not say a word. He just stands there, feelin’ the cool spring breeze caress his cheek, listenin’ to the familiar sound of the nearby creek and the rustlin’ of branches in the wind. Occasionally, he will turn his head slightly as though hearin’ someone call his name, but then he turns his face back toward me. He stands there for several minutes, his silvered hair waftin’ around his face. As he stands there with eyes closed, that tear that he shed is replaced by the slightest upturn of his lips. He stands there for just a moment and then opens his eyes. Glancin’ around one more time, I hear him say, “If walls could talk, what stories you could tell!”

He then turns around, carefully descends the safety of my steps and usin’ his cane to push back the overgrowth, he returns to his car and leaves.

He leaves; and yet I am still haunted by his visit. I saw the sorrow that the changes I have known caused in this familiar face. I saw the disappointment that he knew because I was not as he remembered. I would just remind him that the changes that accompany the passage of time are not changes unique to me. No, those changes are universal; all things eventually return to the dust from whence they came. Some may return more slowly. Some may return more gracefully, but all will return as the Lord has ordained.

I would remind him that he has also changed. I have witnessed some of that change while it was occurin’. I saw his birth. I saw him grow into young adulthood. I saw him leave home and return with a beautiful young wife and then return again with a beautiful young family.

But, the last I actually saw this familiar face, the hair was not silvered, the face had few lines, the body was strong and robust and required no cane. The face that I knew often knew the smile of joy and contentment. It had not the lines brought about by years of sorrows and adult burdens.

If I could, I would shed a tear, not just for the sorrow my own infirmity has caused him, but for the sadness that his infirmity has caused me. We are both reachin’ for the dust from whence we came. Yet, I am thankful; thankful that we have both played an important role. We have both provided examples of what is possible. I have provided a haven for a family. My presence is forever a part of the memories of those who knew that haven. He continues the cycle of family love that he knew in my haven. For years to come, we will both be remembered. My essence may occupy different walls; his essence may occupy different fathers, but we will both continue on as long as mankind continues on. I will provide the haven. He will provide the love. Together, we will provide a home.