|Image Courtesy of Tess @ Magpie Tales|
It was a funny old house to begin with, out on it's own, no proper roads for miles around. It stood bright at night, like Las Vegas in the middle of a desert. On the porch late evenings, we talked, him more than I. I was the listener, always was.
Most of the good bits about the house are gone now. Haunting memories are all that remain. He too left, not long after that last night. I don't know why I choose to come back. What I thought I'd find.
The front door on the porch is broken, hangs off the hinges along with the glass cracked windows and paint curling up like apple peel. I rub my hands along where once we sat. The wood course, dry, life sucked away by long hours of sunlight and abandoned nights.
Once I loved to listen to the night sounds, a backdrop to his mellow words as I'd glide through it all, his tone changing with the lateness of the hour, or if he felt my father was nearby. Whispers which caressed my neck as he leaned in closer. I loved him. I know that now.
That last night before he went, I knew he wanted more from me. More of my soul. The part of me, I wasn't ready to share.
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