One day, this house, permeated with sounds and stains and tiny souls, will be quiet and empty. One day I’ll walk the hallways, with my hands brushing against the walls where pictures used to hang, and I’ll think of the stories this house told.

I’ll look out the living room window and see the little gray craftsman-style home where my parents lived. I’ll see tiny bare feet running through the grass to get to their door. I’ll hear shrieks and laughter and the sound of mud squishing between toes as the boys dance in the puddles after a spring rain storm.

I’ll hear the faint hum of the noise machine, seeping through the cracks in the nursery door. I’ll listen for sounds of Willa’s breathing, slow and steady.

The low rumble of the bread machine, working its magic, pouring from the kitchen. Morning light spilling onto the island, breathing warmth in contrasted rays dancing on the walls.

Countless sounds will fill the silence—old boards creaking under the tip toes of tiny humans, quietly making their way to our room at night. Baby cries and stifled sobs of a frustrated child. The spilling of Legos and clanking of plastic swords, the slamming of front doors and feet crashing against the ceiling to the rhythm of Imagine Dragons up in the loft. The unbridled laughter of two little boys in a tickle fight with dad. Pages of chapter books being read aloud in hushed tones, muffled by the barrier of haphazard blanket forts.

The smells of fresh baked challah and banana bread and essential oils when the weather changes. The earthy scent of mud stained feet and freshly cut grass. Gold fish crumbs accumulated in nooks and crannies where the boys liked to gather. The sofa, well-worn and sunken in at the corner—everyone’s favorite spot. Musty blankets that always smelled like the family dog even after several washes and threadbare quilts pulled out each Friday to hold our weekly dinner snack tray.

As I make my way to the backyard, I’ll pull hard against the yellow painted door that groans and creaks against the settled foundation. I’ll step out onto the peeling, stained deck and see the empty spot where the hammock once hung—the one that often served as a pirate ship braving rough seas. I’ll pace the raised garden bed, soil dry and cracked from years of attempted (and failed) vegetable gardens. But oh, did we try.

I’ll sit on the outdoor sofa made of wood pallets and oversized pillows where college kids and young adults sat on Thursday evenings, eating s’mores dip and pouring over Scripture.

I’ll brave the flood of emotions and make my way to the second floor, past the playroom that once filled hours of my time spent watching little hands play. I’ll stand at the threshold of the boys’ bedroom. I’ll reimagine everything as it always was—a bed in both corners covered by an heirloom quilt, a wooden toy box perpetually overflowing with costumes worn and discarded daily, my Father’s old typewriter that we revived for Cyrus to tell his own stories with, dozens of stuffed animals crammed in the corners.

I’ll listen for the hushed tones of the boys talking and giggling long after we’ve tucked them in. I’ll try for the life of me to remember why I was always in such a hurry to kiss them goodnight and be on my way. Because here is where it has landed me, longing to go back, wishing to freeze time in these years I was always so worn down by.

Oh the stories this house will one day tell…

The Stories This House Will One Day Tell