June 2, 2010 II

Sometimes I think it's calling for our return. But do houses speak? Bad luck reigns over us since leaving that home; we lost our dog; Lola became gravely ill. Contracts come but fall through. It's been a year and two months since the for sale sign went up. More off a bad omen. The pictures weep with remorse, huge tears asking for our return. I still feel her spirit as I cruise through the empty rooms, can hear her feet click-clack across the kitchen floor, see her racing across the big back yard. Years of happiness filtered into a webpage, preserved and unsold, heartbreaking carelessness. I want to go back. Hard to imagine a future here - a place where nothing has gone right no matter how hard we've tried. This house seems to barf us away from loving it. Holding its cards, evil grin, waiting for us to flinch. A hex placed on our heads by some incredulous person with the goal of get-back. How often must we go through more heart ache and rejection? What sort of energy spirals us into the abyss? Not one viable offer, nor people with good standing. Just look-seers out for a glimpse of our once happy home.