This old house is new again. There’s a new heart beating inside her, one of many she’s held for the past 70 years she’s stood here. She tended to hold more than one beating being at once, but now she has one little heart padding around inside. This little heart is small in this big body, sometimes drowning in the spacious chambers, sometimes overwhelmed with the fact that this old house is all hers.
This little heart’s little dog click-clacks from room to room, his little toenails beating a familiar rhythm through the wood-paneled house. The little heart listens to the little toenails on little floorboards, matching them step for step through the old house. This little dog keeps this little heart beating.
This little heart keeps the old house clean. She doesn’t know what hearts beat here before but she sees the scars they left; cracks in the floorboards, paint bleeding down the walls, secret messages carved into hidden corners. This old house has different marks than her last home. That house was new. She put all the scars there, herself. Memories gathered in the corners like dust, choking her in her sleep and making her eyes water even while she laughed. Dirt stuck deep down in the carpet no matter how hard she tried to rub it out.
This old house knows how to love her. It cradles her at night and lets the light shine through in the mornings. It wakes her up with light breezes and the soft crackles of an old body settling. In this old house, she chases tumbleweeds of dog hair across the floors, giggling as the culprit click-clacks behind her, nipping at her heels. The little heart plays music as loud as she wants, sings as loud as she wants, stomps through the house as loud as she wants. In this old house, this new, little heart beats as loud as she wants.
Some nights, the little heart flutters softly in her bed. Even the old house can’t stop the darkness from sneaking in. Some nights, the little heart races from room to room, and the old house knows other hearts are coming to visit. Some days, two little hearts beat out a soft harmony through the living room. Sometimes, a whole group of hearts beat out so loud and so randomly in the kitchen, that the old house can’t find her little heart in all the noise.
But most days and most nights, the old house just sits and watches her little heart. Her little heart gets lost, sometimes. She leaves a lot, sometimes for days at a time and the old house wonders if she’ll ever find her way back. But her little heart always comes home. “You’re my north star, old house,” she whispers as she cuddles her little dog under the covers. “You bring me home.” The old house thinks that sometimes it’s ok to be lost if you’re lost in the right direction.
This old house is new again. The little heart keeps the old house moving, shifting, growing. The old house holds up the little heart, protects her, and keeps her beating. The little heart is new again.
This little heart’s little dog click-clacks from room to room, his little toenails beating a familiar rhythm through the wood-paneled house. The little heart listens to the little toenails on little floorboards, matching them step for step through the old house. This little dog keeps this little heart beating.
This little heart keeps the old house clean. She doesn’t know what hearts beat here before but she sees the scars they left; cracks in the floorboards, paint bleeding down the walls, secret messages carved into hidden corners. This old house has different marks than her last home. That house was new. She put all the scars there, herself. Memories gathered in the corners like dust, choking her in her sleep and making her eyes water even while she laughed. Dirt stuck deep down in the carpet no matter how hard she tried to rub it out.
This old house knows how to love her. It cradles her at night and lets the light shine through in the mornings. It wakes her up with light breezes and the soft crackles of an old body settling. In this old house, she chases tumbleweeds of dog hair across the floors, giggling as the culprit click-clacks behind her, nipping at her heels. The little heart plays music as loud as she wants, sings as loud as she wants, stomps through the house as loud as she wants. In this old house, this new, little heart beats as loud as she wants.
Some nights, the little heart flutters softly in her bed. Even the old house can’t stop the darkness from sneaking in. Some nights, the little heart races from room to room, and the old house knows other hearts are coming to visit. Some days, two little hearts beat out a soft harmony through the living room. Sometimes, a whole group of hearts beat out so loud and so randomly in the kitchen, that the old house can’t find her little heart in all the noise.
But most days and most nights, the old house just sits and watches her little heart. Her little heart gets lost, sometimes. She leaves a lot, sometimes for days at a time and the old house wonders if she’ll ever find her way back. But her little heart always comes home. “You’re my north star, old house,” she whispers as she cuddles her little dog under the covers. “You bring me home.” The old house thinks that sometimes it’s ok to be lost if you’re lost in the right direction.
This old house is new again. The little heart keeps the old house moving, shifting, growing. The old house holds up the little heart, protects her, and keeps her beating. The little heart is new again.
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