Building's Don't Have Memories
Buildings don’t have memories. Wooden planks and age-kissed mortar never recognize your face as you walk the length of a hallway or slide your hand along the railway of a well-worn staircase. But sometimes, just sometimes, it feels as though it is possible-- that a couple’s transition from newlyweds to first-time parents could somehow awaken the soul of a building and transform it, as if it were the architectural version of the Velveteen Rabbit, into something more. And if there was ever a time when such a magical transformation would have happened to a building, it would have been in this house, this home. Our home.
The little beige frame home with a front porch swing that glides through the thick, sultry Louisiana summer days and sways with the gentle breeze on autumn nights. The porch where I hoped my grandchildren would play. Owning this house was once the dream of a little girl, a petite little red-head that passed through these streets in her childhood and glimpsed her future. The same little girl that grew up to place a FOR SALE sign in front of her dream, tucked innocently beside the magnificent live oak tree that her children love to climb.
And one day soon, I’ll leave this porch behind. I’ll pass by this old oak tree one last time, and with my children in tow we will begin a new life-- a life where autism does not hold my son’s future hostage.
For buildings don’t have memories. Wooden planks and age-kissed mortar never recognize my son’s face as he walks the length of our hallway or slides his hand along the railway of this well-worn staircase. And though this home has sheltered, has protected and has comforted, it does not feel for him. Its heart does not ache when my son cannot be calmed. Its eyes do not fill with tears when he prays for God to help him make a friend.
But mine does.
So I will sell these wooden planks and age-kissed mortar. And with the money, I will buy my son the life that he needs.