Worn floors and old men

Written by Dennis

 They looked at me as I lay about the old wooden floor consumed in my
depression.  I was worn and weary looking just like that floor that was
beneath me.  In fact the entire home I soon would have to vacate against
my wishes was beaten down through time (like me) and also like me had
seen its better days.

Now my sister and my brother in law began to do more than merely look at
me in amazement.  One by one they urged me to be reasonable and snap out
of it.  To come to and not attach myself to the depression or to the
willingness to cling to this old home.

If only they would pay heed I thought to the cherished memories this old
home brought back to mind and heart of my grandfather and grandmother
and to the garden they’d often frequented in this remnant of an abode I
refused to depart from.  The garden and the home was as I was
intermittently a good deal healthier back then in my youth.

I say intermittently because oftentimes with the exception of my
grandparent blessed influences my life was anything but normal.  I was
subjected to the whims of an emotionally and verbally abusive alcoholic
father.  Both he and my mother were constantly at odds with each other.
Yet they had decided to remain married in spite of my occasionally
requesting that she leave him.  But more on this later.

Now I in  half responding to the pleas of my sister and her husband
arise though still in a depressive funk.  Upon getting up, I cannot help
but peer outside my kitchen window onto my backyard when a myriad of
most wondrous pleasantries about this one time beautiful garden flashes
before me in increasing detail.