Centuries-old buildings sigh. Contentedly, of course. That is the only way old buildings know anymore. They lean this way and that way, never fully settling, but then old age makes them restless.
A juxtaposition of sorts. And that’s okay.
It’s the way hours of wet weather lets them know they’re bleeding mortar. Temperate climates are death sentences but they are okay with that. Content, even.
If you listen closely enough when the lights are off after all the boys and girls and men and women have left for the day or week or summer, you can hear stories. Clichè perhaps, perhaps not. After all, they are bleeding mortar while new homes are erected across the street, and most of us tend not to notice.
Another juxtaposition of sorts.
Old buildings tell their stories and then they sigh once more before settling in for the night. It’s going to be a long night, after all. The weather men practiced their magic and this time the invisible spirits proved them right. It’s going to be a long night because it’s still winter and this never-ending rain will only become colder as the world darkens.
Did you hear that? The old buildings sighed and fell asleep for the night. Careful not to wake them. They need their rest.
They are bleeding mortar, after all.
If I sit long enough, over time, and breathe in the mortar dust–big, long breaths, perhaps a story or two will resonate deep enough so that I won’t have to figure out the ending for myself.