SOLD

The rickety porch steps sank beneath my boots with a low whine. Years of use and now disuse painfully exposed themselves. The paint was chipped where familiar feet, and strangers’ too, had come and gone with loving frequency. The panels were scratched in places, and the figure of a tabby cat prancing along the sills reappeared in the memory of old times. 

A jump up.

A leap down.

Scratch!

Puuurrrr. 

Past the steps, the porch stretched out on either side, and a lime green deck chair sat vacant. Its companion had been known to sit there on evenings such as this: a tepid, cloudy, twilight recovering from an afternoon of rain. The nauseating green stood out awkwardly against the faded orange walls of the house, but the charm of what the old place had been gave allowance to the distaste of its decoration. 

The screen door screeched wildly on its rusty hinges and the front door slid awkwardly over the oriental hall mat, its pattern barely visible beneath the treks of dirt and foot-worn patches. To the left, the parlor sat cluttered with knick-knacks and second-hand art worth forty-two years of garage sales and antique store finds. 

The small, narrow hallway was nestled next to the stairs, its dusty walls with odd, barren blotches where picture frames once hung. Some garage sale goods had been left behind, but most evidence of the vibrant life once led in the halls had all been claimed. 

The smell of lavender drifted from the laundry room. For a moment, the damp, dusty scent of the abandoned house was lifted, and the aroma of a home returned. Splatters of paint and chaotic crafts whirled through the rooms. The ghosts of artists and jewelers and jesters laughed once more. Pirates and peddlers and gypsies crept back through the floorboards and story and song rang through the corridors. 

But then the dust settled. 

The figures dispersed. 

The rainbow-hued memories of cherished childhood vanished. All was quiet. All was old--and there on the lawn was a sign that read SOLD.