Empty House

This house, a couple miles from here, has been long abandoned. Yet inside there is still furniture; curtains hang at the upstairs windows. The two-story bay window must have been the talk of the county once; an unusually flashy detail for a rural house.

The most intriguing detail to me, however, is the second front door. In the painting it’s hidden, but it’s next to the one visible on the left. The visible door leads into a large living room with fireplace. The invisible one opens on a small parlor. A smaller office-like room sits behind that. I imagine the house belonged to a country lawyer or doctor who practiced in these two rooms. The rest of the house was for family, but I’m sure the squeals of children intruded into that office.

Whatever its story, the house now holds only silence. It’s like a lost friendship, frozen in time. I find myself thinking more and more of people who’ve disappeared from my life—friends, colleagues, loves, acquaintances, even the occasional enemy. In my mind I see them as they last were but like me, they must be aging too. Are they happy? Any regrets? Do they ever think of me?

Memories of them are like the furniture in this empty house, not useful for anything, but evocative nonetheless. Friendships are lost mostly because of our own sloppiness; we misplace each other through carelessness. We didn’t try hard enough, forgive soon enough, or listen enough.

Now we are memories for one another, curtains stirring at a broken window. I think I still love everyone who’s ever been a friend. I forgive them all. I regret any hurts I’ve given. I miss them. My invisible front door is open.

Above: House on Lott’s Ridge, acrylic on canvas, 24x30 inches. Copyright 2010 ptw. Click on image for larger view.