The Big Old House
The first rays of the morning sun touched it lightly. The night’s dew glinted and shimmered in the soft light. The windowpanes let the glow through in thin tendrils and shafts which illuminated the swirls of dust, twisting in the air like gracious dancers. Jumping, pirouetting, gliding through the room to finally settle on the worn wood of the old table. The light caressed it softly, as if afraid to disturb the memories inside. Memories encased in the old dark oak. Memories that had waited there for years, waiting to be discovered. Waiting to tell their tale to the world outside the big old house.
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