He knew they loved this house once; with its front facing gable, ornamental parts and asymmetrical facade. They loved the musty smell of the cellar and the cedar. They even enjoyed the occasional mouse and spider that came out in the fall. He thought about those winter mornings when the cold hardwood on his bare feet woke him up better than a hot shower. And those nights they shared a glass of milk by the fireplace and argued about what they could fix next. Yet, when all had been refinished, the trusses somehow became exposed, exposed like her. Its bones and frame became fragile, and weak.
Today, he stood outside, as if they had both only been strangers to this place, never making love in the tower, or spending hours on the woodwork; only to be left with blisters on their fingers and splinters in their knees; in this big, life-sized house that they had worked so hard to breathe the life back into. He always thought that houses were like people. They lived; they breathed and held dear to those who walked in its halls— and those who gave birth, and bled in the third floor corner room; crying at all the life placed before them. Our foundations and our frames may not be the same, but, houses too, keep secrets inside, and they see things they should never have to see. In turn, houses have to learn what it means to feel love, injury, and in the end succumb to those wounds; the only difference is houses just show it in different ways. Their paint chips, and the wood rots, cobwebs begin to cluster in groups as if they were lilies in the spring. Their parts are manicured in a way that ours could never be, making them stronger. Yet, houses too, can become broken. But, unlike her, they can always be rebuilt.