Sometimes the power lies in your fingertips as they caress the darkness inside of you. Your fingers caress the darkness surrounding you and turn it into a vague light—a slight illumination of demons and angels housed inside your soul. Let the night breeze guide you into a spell that you sing like a lullaby for the flowers growing around your foundation. The silver glints in the candlelight as you let the building catch fire so that from the flames, your spirit can be reborn. Rise from candlelight as the candle burns out and smokes itself into the nothingness unrecognizable as air. Light irradiates from you and warms the frayed buildings that housed your beliefs in between the night sky. How perfect did your shell burn into and outwards throughout the night.
I slightly remember the people who used to live in that house. They were an older couple and had faces as kind as could be. Very sweet. One day the government notice came: FORECLOSURE. They couldn’t pay their rent anymore. In Florida we had thousands of homes foreclose in a short span of time. They had made their lives in the one right in front of mine. We were new to the neighborhood still and had bought off our house. The worries that touched them did not touch mine. I went back to school and said goodbye to my parents and brother—my justified sacrifice. The “Florida Winter” had come and gone and I didn’t worry about a dime.
Summer came around and with it came my jolly face ready to bask in sunshine. I did not think of the elder couple that lived in the house in front of mine. When our minivan pulled in, lugging me and my things one of the first sights I had was of that one house. The windows were boarded and it looked unlived in. You’d think it had been a grow house like mine once was. The view was quite desolate and property value fell, but we didn’t really mind for this was our home. My parents told me in low voices that the people had taken the fence that bordered the house; they had shattered the windows. My stepdad lamented all the work they had done on that happy home before it was demanded to give it up.
Shattered windows reflected shattered dreams.
All of those memories were dead now.
I recently moved back in May after finishing the studies that landed me a great job as a teacher. My sacrifice was worth it, is what I would say and I know it to be true to this day. My home is joyous, I’m making new memories and for some reason today I remember the elderly couple. Since moving right back, I’ve realized something. This home once belonged to someone, was destroyed, and has been recently purchased. There hasn’t been a single day in which I haven’t seen work done on that house. A group of men work day and night, sweating, losing weight, cursing, and laughing to create a beautiful abode. For some reason it reminds me of the beach—it’s a very light pastel blue. There are new windows in place, bordered with beige concrete in such a pleasant way. It’s almost as if it is accentuating the fact that the windows were once never there. They’ve made a little gazebo towards the back of the house and I frequently see my new neighbors sitting there and having a drink. There are at least three cars there daily, ready with bodies prepared for hard work. They sweat under the sun with their long sleeved shirts. One paints the house, the other mows the grass, the other works on the hinges and stuff like that.
I don’t quite know them and I know not if they’re kind. I just hope that their home can pass the test of time.
I can see their dreams pouring from their eyes.