The Old House 1707

The old house is still alive.

It was a young buck long before we were born.

Now it’s an old man long beyond our years.

He creaks and cracks and moans.

His new fangled electricity powers lights, controls temperature and provides entertainment.

We used to sit there in the morning listening to clicks pops and things that whirred.

The seasons change.

The old man changes with them.

The old man tilts a slightly different way.

His doors that swing open in summer, swing closed in winter, all by themselves.

The windows to his soul leak warm air half the year and leak cold the other half, but they always bring in light.

His basement footing is always cold, just like me.

His skin sheds flakes and dust, just like me.

His framework creaks in the cold, just like me.

The old man is 24 years older than me.

Neither of us knows when our demise will come, but I suspect when I am long gone, he will continue on.