I call it my old house-- it stands in the woods with no electricity, and no water.
If you listen carefully enough, you can hear laughter still dancing down the hall
followed by the screaming and fighting.
Every time I go there I see visions of two young girls sledding down the big hill out front, or friends and past friends talking on the front porch illuminated in Christmas lights.
Still I sit in my old room where tapestrys and photographs once lined the walls.
The house where family once lived sits quiet.
And lonely.
The children don't play anymore and my mother doesn't fill the kitchen with scents of dinner and she no longer burns incense.
The flowers don't grow because they are dead.
The windows were left wide open and the beds stripped of their sheets, some of my old things are buried behind my closet door.... like skeletons.

No one will answer the door if you knock because no one is home.