Dust to Dust

The farm house stood silent now, alone and abandoned by its former occupants who had decided to pursue dreams and creations closer to others.

Where once a family's laughter echoed through the walls, arguments of purpose debated or cries of carnal pleasure and passion heard long into the antiquated evenings now these were replaced with the whispering of the wind. The once cheerful abode seemed to be in silent contemplation of all the fears, hopes, and purpose it once housed.

Its garden that years ago were the pride of its tender, so uniformed and contrived now unkempt had returned to the wild, the precious cultivars brought from afar slowly returning to the dust to feed the natural flora that they had once replaced.

The prescriptive Karoo door shutter, on queue and regardless of presence of wind, continually banged against the broken plaster window frame, which was cracked and peeling in its desire to hasten the end. It seemed that the noise made by the banging was perfect in its timing, like a drummer boy sounding the tap, tap, tap of the retreat of weary and beaten soldiers.

The house was a find. I had been looking for it all over this vast place. It reflected my perspective and I reflected its history, we would be happy here, we would leave the history as is but bring heat to its continual tale of our birth and mortality. Yes we would add a new chapter to its book of life.

I loved its form, form like this cannot be created it has to be earned by standing against elements, by living ones life. Chipped, slightly bent and a little broken that is what makes character, this is what interests and attracts me.