Love, Lose, And Repeat

The Walls That Watch

If walls could hear, they would hear whispers, secrets, vibrations of love, and then stinging silence. They would hear small laughs, coughs, pots and pans in the morning. Quiet nights, bold speeches at parties, Mrs. Grandier's lisp and Pastor Pete's sermon at Sunday dinner. Then, they would hear yelling that they would ignore--what else are walls there for. 

They would see Celia playing with dolls in the kitchen. Darla filling cups of cranberry juice and calling for breakfast to begin. They'd see family, trickling in and out, in all frames of mind. On Tuesdays, they would see Dan, coming home at two in the morning, and turning on adult on demand. Or Darla, who gave the kids their baths before bed, heading back downstairs for a sip of bourbon from the bottle and debating cocking back a pistol to stop the screaming in her head.

They'd taste years of no white bread, because their boy is allergic. They would taste baby food, and Celia's lemon juice. The over easy eggs Dan liked in the morning, on his bed, in a neat little pile and the pills Darla chased with white wine and a second dose.

They would feel warm arms, hard hands, flesh. They would feel handshakes, pats on the back by Pastor Pete when he takes a second crab cake off the plate. They would feel the years when Darla didn't talk to Dan and the years that they kissed and played games and pressed palms on each other. They would feel Celia kick for the first time and Grandpa breath his last breath in the rocking chair he loved. They'd feel it separate and lonely and all at once.

If walls could talk they'd tell you all their secrets. That's why we secure them to the floor, fill them up with drywall, coat them in plaster, roll them with primer then paint. Muffle their screams, stop them from talking, keep them quiet so they can't spill the secrets. We keep them encasing us, surrounding us, suffocating us, because what are we, without our witnesses?