Built then broken, found, then again forgotten. It all begins with promises we made; contracts we penned with permanency in our hearts. Two souls were fallen fast in love. The romance novel delivers and does not disappoint; happily-ever-after is both expected and celebrated! But sometimes the binding on a fairy tale frays and the ending becomes even darker than a nightmare. 

I met my husband when I was 15; he was 17. The universe must have been in alignment because we gravitated towards one another immediately. There was magic; there still is. We respect one another tremendously, and we care enough to make communication a priority.  In fact, this June we will celebrate our 35th wedding anniversary. 5 Kids later, we're even more in love. 

Sometimes in the middle of a lazy Sunday, a message appears on the clapboard wall of an old house. There it was. I was so intrigued by its curious innocence. This odd sight captured me. Clearly, there was a message here. 

This century-old colonial house proudly sits on Main Street in our small town. On its west side, next to an old, badly weathered door, are hunter green shutters framing what might have once been a window. Why is it absent? Did the occupants not want to peer out, or did they not want others looking in?

The sun shines through the still-bare tree branches on a chilly spring morning. The perfect kind of day to wear a warm sweater and sit beside her only and forever love.

Without exception every single day, a coffee-filled thermos in hand,  Cynthia joins her husband Sam; that's what soulmates do. Always first thing in the morning, before the day unfolds. Weather never really changes anything; even when it rains, he is her sunshine. When winter winds howl, his heart songs keep her warm. 

So many lingering questions and uncertainties. 
So much we wish we'd said, yet wish we'd never heard. Memories turned nightmares, leaving us afraid to fall asleep. So much pain, regret, and mostly overwhelming anger. This haunting hell we have come to know and live.  

We wonder how to move on while tending the tattered threads, akin to balancing an albatross hanging from our hurting hearts. They tease and torment us, and yet we still try to hide them. Like our abusers, WE WISH THEM GONE.

In our town, we have a huge old hardware store. It's located next to railroad tracks and looks to have been part of a mill harkening years back. The century-old cranky, creaky wooden floors are loyal to me; they are in sync with my every step. The farm relics, penny farthing bike, dusty original Radio Flyer wagon, and especially, the buttery scent of the popcorn in their antique popcorn machine reaffirm and enrich this experience even more. For this, I am ever thankful. 

Every excuse I find to visit this relic-filled repository is cause for a quiet celebration in my soul. The exposed beams and rafters there remind me of our 1831 Colonial farmhouse. I often wonder what hides behind our plaster walls;  I'd do anything to give them a voice. In my mind the conversations would revolve around family and farming; evidently, the founding farmer brought his family to this small town to grow produce on the two acres now home to our chickens and ducks.