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The lamp shade was stained and brittle from hot bulbs and age. Wallpaper faded and stained, evidenced by bright squares, ghost of past hangings. The ornate oak moldings though dusty, stood proudly against the ravages of time. The windows drooped , thickening at the bottom from their long stand. As the wind moaned in its passages through the cracks. I stood, surveying the bones of this old house, imagining the lives that had passed within it’s once sturdy, welcoming walls. The births . The deaths. The old house, whose fate was in my hands, seemed to become frozen in time, as if anticipating my decision.

By David Lane

I was born a long time ago.