Seasons of House and Human

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The crisp springtime air sends a thin layer of yellow and brown pollen tumbling across the driveway. The newly-sod grass is freshly cut, and smells of Saturday afternoons. The shouts of young children and a barking dog lift into the air and a baby bird’s chirp sounds through the leafy-green bushes. Newly constructed, the house stands proud among the moss-covered oaks. Its polished terra-cotta floors and sparkling appliances promising decades of use as the family grows and flourishes.

 

Time passes and the children continue to roam and play. They grow up, coming and going, introducing new faces and fostering mischief. Familiar and comforting, the house’s textures, handrails, doorknobs, furnishings and fixtures are memorized by all who call it home. These summer months bring peaceful mornings with clear skies and the promise of hopeful futures. In the afternoon, these same skies give way to thunderstorms, where lighting strikes unexpectedly, brightening purple-robed skies. And the nights are black, where the fear of the unknown lurks and yet sounds of life resonate in the deafening buzz of the cicada and in the rhythmic croaks of the frog.

Summer gives way to fall, which, in this part of the world, begins most imperceptibly. The leaves continue clinging to the trees and the heat lingers like a guest that has stayed well beyond its welcome. The only indication of a shift comes in the slow shortening of days. The lights are on longer and decades of dust begin to cake in the cracks. Maintenance becomes continually cumbersome as the house begins to shift under the weight of the years. With the children gone and grown, the energy of the home becomes quiet, and sometimes lonely.

 

Before anyone can realize, winter settles in, bringing with it the promise of long nights and holidays gone haywire. The home’s wooden cladding, a skin of grey, begins to warp and twist, bruised and broken from years of exposure to the elements. The floorboards creak like brittle bones, the screen door hangs limp, and the window frames begin to sag, like atrophied muscles. Unseen holes and cracks let in cockroaches and the occasional snake, who search the sparsely-stocked kitchen for forgotten crumbs. A light begins to flicker, warning that it may sputter out soon.

 

In this particular moment, the freezes have started occurring with greater frequency. Left exposed and unattended, the orange trees here have suffered irreversible damage. Their leaves wilt and are soggy. And although the fruit appears bright, the inside is spongy and spoils quickly. The children have scattered, having become distracted and distanced. Any caretakers are few and far between. These trees are weak and they cannot risk infection for fear of dying without hope of recovery. The house becomes a place of solitude, where people rarely come in or go out. Days, weeks, and months pass by, and time stagnates as the winter drags on.

 

Yet beyond these dark days, there is a glimmer of hope; the anticipation of another spring, bursting with rebirth and repair. The time of waiting will give way to new memories and hopes on the horizon, sending pollen tumbling across the driveway once more.

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