I see him there every day. Like an old friend I've never met in an old house I'll never walk through. The house is white, and newly so. In the setting sun and drizzly air it sits quietly on the corner of one street that is always busy and one street that has seen better days. Though the houses that follow it down the long gray pavement each have their own character, they rest somberly, all devoid of life and light. Once so well loved and now seemingly unremembered by tenants preoccupied with the woes of life.
But this house. This white house. Were I to step out of my car, where I see it from each day, it no doubt would smell of fresh paint and freshly cut wood and sits newly discovered, newly remembered. Each night this old friend I've never met can be seen standing on the wide front porch with one power tool or another. He cuts and hammers and saws and sweats. And not a single movement is wasted as he tries his hardest to make this house a home.
Were a passerby to look through the wide open framed windows they might see empty spaces, void of furniture or pictures or people. But I wonder what he sees. He must see possibility. Rooms filled with more than wood and bright light bulbs.
I wonder if he sees them. The family he works all day to support and then all night to build a home for. Racing up the stairs with the love of his life to show her every room. Does he hear laughing children in beds not yet bought? Does he see framed portraits lining the staircase wall? Mis-matched frames filled with images of love so deep that a tear falls when you see them?
What memories do these walls already hold? And how many more will they bear witness to ten years from now? Twenty?
When he looks at this house he sees future possibilities. When I look at it I see layers. Layers of life from years past and layers of life still yet to come. Some layers reek of pain but some smile with joy and others still nod with wisdom. These layers lay silent, forgotten by time. But this man on the porch, he sees its future. And promises never to forget it.
I see his passion to bring something back to life. I see his creativity. I see his dreams. I see his strength. I hope he sees it all too.
But this house. This white house. Were I to step out of my car, where I see it from each day, it no doubt would smell of fresh paint and freshly cut wood and sits newly discovered, newly remembered. Each night this old friend I've never met can be seen standing on the wide front porch with one power tool or another. He cuts and hammers and saws and sweats. And not a single movement is wasted as he tries his hardest to make this house a home.
Were a passerby to look through the wide open framed windows they might see empty spaces, void of furniture or pictures or people. But I wonder what he sees. He must see possibility. Rooms filled with more than wood and bright light bulbs.
I wonder if he sees them. The family he works all day to support and then all night to build a home for. Racing up the stairs with the love of his life to show her every room. Does he hear laughing children in beds not yet bought? Does he see framed portraits lining the staircase wall? Mis-matched frames filled with images of love so deep that a tear falls when you see them?
What memories do these walls already hold? And how many more will they bear witness to ten years from now? Twenty?
When he looks at this house he sees future possibilities. When I look at it I see layers. Layers of life from years past and layers of life still yet to come. Some layers reek of pain but some smile with joy and others still nod with wisdom. These layers lay silent, forgotten by time. But this man on the porch, he sees its future. And promises never to forget it.
I see his passion to bring something back to life. I see his creativity. I see his dreams. I see his strength. I hope he sees it all too.
(Photo credit: Fedorrrz)
Comments
Post a Comment