I stood
beneath the dried flowers,
Half the beauty they once
were.
They hung in the middle of the
doorway,
Like some sort of story lore.
I walked past cracked plaster
And ceilings caving in
I heard children laughing
Parents that would sing
I heard arguing
And angry words
But more than anything
I heard the whispered promise
Of flowers above the door
A story of love
Perhaps lost
Perhaps forgotten
I didn’t know for sure
Walking up the cracked stair case
Water dripping down the walls
Stories flaking from the ceiling
And outdated wall paper tarnished
brown
From years of soot and dirt
I made my way to the attic
Quietly I snuck up the stairs
In the corner of the wall
A doll lay naked and bare
The roof let in spots of sun
Made my smile broaden
I knew this house would some day
fall
The memories of here would soften
Dreams that were born here
May have died here too
But my mind wandered back to the
flowers
Hanging in the door
For just a moment I realized
Every place has had love
Every place has seen anger
Everyone has been loved
Everyone has seen anger
We all need to remember
Every home has a story
Every story has a plot
Every plot has a beginning
Every beginning an end
In the middle is the heart
Of who we are
The stories we have
Embrace them
Love them
And respect all those
Who have walked the streets
The land
Respect all those
Who have come before you
Who will come after
Respect the houses that still stand
The ones that will fall
Those that will be built
For their will be flowers for them
all
Celeste Lamarre-Vernale
February 17, 2014