The House on Nottingham Way

by Sofia Carlisi

If these walls could talk their voices would be faded and old just like the layers upon layers of paint adorning them. If these walls could talk their voices would be creaky just like the floorboards and swift like the wind that howls against the windows during a storm. These walls could tell the stories of survival from 9/11 and the Great Depression, of death, and life, sadness, and happiness. These walls have outlived most of their owners and what would they say? Would the walls cry because their voices have been snuffed out and they have been silent for over a hundred years?  Would the walls sing? Would they sing because of the cherry blossom tree outside and how the pastel paint makes them happy? Would they laugh, because they were finally free, and could speak their minds? The walls could cry out in pain. For they have been keeping this house, the people inside safe, for so long, and maybe they would want nothing more than the nails inside them to cease the pain. To be released from the duty of holding onto a house for eternity. If these could talk would they whistle? Whistle like the birds in the tree outside, or the way the old swings used to sway on a Fall day.

If these walls could talk, what would they talk about?  We could all sit down around them like little children and listen to the stories of their youth. How their branches would defy gravity, and their leaves would turn the color of pumpkin pie. The colors of sunsets and happiness and a burning fire. If these walls could talk they could talk about innocence. About how being older has trimmed the innocence away, like one would a Christmas tree. If these walls could talk they would talk about being cut down. The ax and the fall, the boom and crash. The wood chips that sprayed the ground. They would talk about the first owners of the house that is now mine. How they were young and happy, but grew old and mean. The walls would never run out of stories to tell, about the people, the lives that are inside still inside of this house, some happy, some sad, and most a mix of both.

This house is a mystery. A mystery that these walls have uncovered truth by truth, year by year, day by day.

These walls would be cunning and smart. They would know all the gossip from years and years. The walls would be old, but lively and witty, they would talk about the pictures on the walls from all the memories that were made. They would know every nook and cranny of this house I call home.

If these walls could talk, would they? Or would the sadness be so cumbersome that they couldn’t bear to?

If these walls could talk, would they? Or would the joy be so overpowering that they couldn't bear to?