Mountain Mike
Fall Mornin’
“Did they leave willingly?”
“Who?” he asked.
“The people from that house.”
I went through a range of options … did the bank take it? Did the last owner die and no one else wanted it? Did the last kid move to the city when Grandma passed on?
“Maybe they just couldn’t take the winters anymore,” he suggested.
“Maybe,” I agreed, eyeing the mist over the snow-capped mountains in the background. From the bits of tin in the corners, to the crooked antenna and the closed door leading to the parlour, this house just feels like it has a story mingled with the remaining shingles; phrases and syllables from near-forgotten lives that waft through the open windows and up into the hollow eaves.
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