Jay Farrell and myself were tooling down the backroads around Bethpage, randomly taking a right or a left at will. We’re going up one road when we see what can only be an abandoned homestead. A large weed choked piece of machinery sits out front, so does a 12 foot tap plastic tank with a huge tire. We go app the drive way walk through the dead overgrown foliage and make our way to the house.

The paint on the outer walls is cracked, the windows stare at the road like an eyeless skull. Bags lay discarded on the shattered concrete porch like old memories that have been rudely cast aside.

There is no telling when this house was last inhabited. When was the last time someone leaned against a porch post sipping iced tea and taking in the day; could they know the fate that awaited this once proud house?

No more fires will warm this hearth, no cold evenings denied by the company of others.

In through the outside and back out again goes the mouse, the cat the bat and the wind too for all the doors are open and all the glass is gone, only refuse remains.

No more cries and screams of merriment, anger or any emotion fills these rooms. Only the wind sounds now.

I can’t say for sure but I’m sure the cupboards are empty and the stove no longer works.

Every room is empty

Every room is full.

The locks once strong and sure have sprung open as their guts were filled with rust.

Come in, lay your head down and stay awhile. No one will wake you.

Any who once would have done so are now gone.