"Mortality of a Little Red House"

Death was there. I remember how pretty the red brick exterior looked against the white trim on the windowsills. A peach tree in the front yard yielded fruit every year, and the English ivy radiated up the outside walls in uniform pattern. The colorful daffodils bloomed in splendor along the walkway, inviting visitors with their hazy smiles. The little red house was alive and cheerful, unaware that a raging storm would destroy its world only to create a new one. Every life has a birth and a death, and when this cycle is learned and accepted, the change is a welcome one in each life whether good, bad, important, or indifferent.

​

Death was imminent for the little red house, and it tried to halt the malignant decay of age. It no longer had a caretaker, and the abandonment showed when the sun beamed through the windowsills. The white trim cracked from the heat. The English ivy started downward, and its vines went out instinctively to touch anything that could renew its terminal life. The heart of the house became still and cold, and the sound of laughter that echoed through the inner walls stopped. The years took their toll, draining the beauty of the little red house that used to be abundant in the beautiful red brick exterior.

​

Time was the culprit that detached life from the little red house along with the  innocence of childhood. The house was a symbol of comfort that once held memories of growing up; however, now it was nothing; now it was bare. The little red house euthanized itself and admitted defeat alongside the child of the past.

​

Its death created a coldness felt in the air. An epitaph carved a place in an adolescent’s heart for the little red house, signifying the end of youth and the beginning of adulthood.  The Grim Reaper came in the night without warning or welcome and extinguished the child quietly. With the legacy fulfilled, the metamorphosis completed itself. The child became a retrospect, and the adult emerged victorious.

​

Nothing lasts forever, not even little red houses. Time reminded the adult that everything has a birth and death, and the Grim Reaper once again came in the night.  Now the adult became a retrospect, and the sunset years emerged victorious. Once again the legacy was fulfilled, and the metamorphosis was completed. The cycle repeated with the death of the sunset years, starting over with the birth of another child in a brand new little red house.