Yes, I hear you little one

                     Yes, I hear you little one                

 

I see the people standing on the sidewalk below me looking,

always looking, at the flowing lines and interesting facade of

the building. Their comments waft up to me in the clear

Summer air. I hear them as if I were still among them, these

fickle earth-bound creatures.

 

It seems like so very long ago that I once walked among them

on these busy, peopled streets of Barcelona. I too once stood

and admired the intriguing lines of this “Batlo House,” as it was

then called. But then something went amiss in the order of

things and I find myself here even now, these many decades

later, staring from within. I don’t really know why I am still

here, it just seems like the place that I ought to be.

 

A century ago they remodeled my home, as I call it. An army of

workmen invaded the premises and altered this and repaired

that. I thought they would never finish. I did enjoy listening to

their conversation though. The Spanish workmen are a lusty

and vital lot. Their remarkable conversation was different from

that normally heard within these staid walls of gentility. I think

my mother would have fainted dead away were she privy to

their casual referrals to their social and physical congress. I

must admit that were I capable of the emotion, a flush would

have risen to my own ashen complexion after over hearing

many of their remarks.

 

I still haven’t gotten used to the concept of “listening in” to the

many tenants who have lived here over the generations. My

mother and father always taught me that it wasn’t proper to

listen in on the conversations of others. But, there isn’t much I

can do to avoid them now. And it does give distraction to the

endless days as they roll on and on. I have long forgotten why

I am here or what whim of kismet consigned me within these

walls. It seems somehow endless and bothersome, regardless

of the elegance of the lines of the structure. Houses do have a

heart and I guess I am chosen to be the center of this one.

 

The current “owners” are nice enough. Their holidays and the

guests that come to visit are entertaining in a noisy sort of way.

I try not to intrude on them but sometimes I feel that the

youngest child senses my presence. She is at that age when

she is becoming a woman and is very sensitive to her

surroundings. Sometimes, I think she knows that I am near

and wants to ask me something. I want to guide her and offer advice

when I see that she is troubled, but I know that it is not my time or place.

But, I do hear you little one.

 

I am with those who sleep in repose now. My comments are no

longer sought or valued. I think it is that which I miss the

most, the notion that someone is aware of me and thinks of

me. Those who knew me are long gone from this house. They

no longer admire their stately home or take pride in its unique

appearance.

 

I will stand here by the window a bit more this day and listen to

the comments of the passersby. I will smile at their comments

and think of long ago when the horse drawn carriages rumbled

by with the jingling of the reins and the clopping of the horse’s

hooves. It was a different Barcelona then. One in which I was

loved and comfortable. Now I have but the inner walls of this

house as my universe and I wonder how much longer I will be

here.

 

When next you wander by my home, on this street in

Barcelona, look up into the second-floor window on the far left

and wave to me. Maybe you will even see me. But if not, look

for the shadows along the sides of the window at dusk. I will be

there watching as I always am. I will smile and wave back to

you. And maybe you will even find the courage to come in and

visit.

 

                                            -30-

                                    (707 words)

                                Joseph Xavier Martin