If these walls could talk, they would mention that it seems hotter this year, but that last weekend was surprisingly cold. They would ask what kind of shoes are you wearing, and how do you like them, and are you getting enough to eat. They would talk to fill the silence, and to direct your stay into not staying, for the sake of the door jamb to the right side of the door into the garage, who bears the marks of your growth from the first year that you could stand until the first year that you had to, who is marred with the measurement of your progress now abandoned, who is waiting until you are gone to say, “I’m sorry, if I did anything wrong, and I hate you, if I didn’t.”
But if these walls could see. If only these walls could see.