If Walls Could Talk.
Every home has walls with stories. Most of our childhood memories were experienced within the walls of a place we called home. If walls could talk, what would they say?
They have seen everything we have done while we were there. They knew the sad face we wear when no one else is in the room and saw us crying alone in the bathroom.
They heard the fight that we never told anyone about. They heard us sing to the top of our lungs when we were alone. They watched as we walked alone and broke into a grin at a thought and wondered maybe at the source of it.
The drama that transpired inside our home, the heartache, the laughter, the tears, and the life. The newborn babies who have been nursed here. The older folks who have breathed their last here. The parties, the phone calls.
The walls of my childhood bedroom watched a little boy grow up. I switched rooms, a few times, trading with my older brothers. Those walls saw and knew every intimate thing about me. They watched over me while I napped as a little boy.
They looked and saw me obsessing over what to wear to school. They listened in on every phone conversation with my best friends and heard me laugh and cry. They knew plans as they were made and plots as they were hatched.
They witnessed me down on my knees reciting the Lord’s prayer when things went wrong, and I thought I would break. They saw me do hundreds of sit-ups trying to flatten my fat stomach and watched a few episodes of Fresh Prince of Bel-air.
They saw my friends and me giggle and eat pizza cross-legged on the bed while we listened to the radio. They knew every struggle and secret I hid. And what would those walls say if they could talk?
They heard the cussing when something was burned and felt the glass shatter against them when a glass was thrown in anger. They knew every part of every story that played out there in the heart of our home.
The walls of mother’s kitchen smelled all her meals. They wore the bacon grease smoke from the morning and inhaled the onions fried with potatoes at supper time.
Other walls might have more interesting stories. What have the walls at No 10 Downing Street seen? Perhaps the lockdown parties in downing street and Whitehall? What disasters have they witnessed and near catastrophes do they know that we do not?
What have the walls in other houses seen that we know nothing of? What wonderful songs have been sung that no one else ever heard and what amazing stories were whispered then forgotten because they were never written down?
The walls near the front door, oh if those walls could talk. They saw every person who entered therein, friend or foe. Unannounced and welcome or not. The front door walls were the first to hear the news when something wonderful or terrible and unexpected happened.
They were there when hands were shaken, backs were patted, and hugs were shared. They saw someone lean in for a good night kiss and knew someone did not want to leave.
The walls that people put up around themselves, around their hearts, when they have been hurt and do not trust. Some hearts hide behind walls out of pain, and some hide behind walls out of shame.
They fear and do not want others to see. Walls are like fences and serve to keep others out and protect what is inside. Oh, if those walls could talk.