Whispers

The white distressed peeling paint, deeply textured black locust bark, the fading Queen Anne’s lace swaying in the breeze bathed in late summer sunlight… I am held captive by the silent story that lives here.

I can almost hear the echoes of forgotten footsteps, the distant laughter of children, and the soft rustle of a tired mother’s hands as she hangs clothes on the line. The imagined sounds swirl around in my mind, stirring lost memories that seem to linger in the air.

….