Sometimes in the middle of a lazy Sunday, a message appears on the clapboard wall of an old house. There it was. I was so intrigued by its curious innocence. This odd sight captured me. Clearly, there was a message here. 

This century-old colonial house proudly sits on Main Street in our small town. On its west side, next to an old, badly weathered door, are hunter green shutters framing what might have once been a window. Why is it absent? Did the occupants not want to peer out, or did they not want others looking in?

The sun shines through the still-bare tree branches on a chilly spring morning. The perfect kind of day to wear a warm sweater and sit beside her only and forever love.

Without exception every single day, a coffee-filled thermos in hand,  Cynthia joins her husband Sam; that's what soulmates do. Always first thing in the morning, before the day unfolds. Weather never really changes anything; even when it rains, he is her sunshine. When winter winds howl, his heart songs keep her warm. 

So many lingering questions and uncertainties. 
So much we wish we'd said, yet wish we'd never heard. Memories turned nightmares, leaving us afraid to fall asleep. So much pain, regret, and mostly overwhelming anger. This haunting hell we have come to know and live.  

We wonder how to move on while tending the tattered threads, akin to balancing an albatross hanging from our hurting hearts. They tease and torment us, and yet we still try to hide them. Like our abusers, WE WISH THEM GONE.

In our town, we have a huge old hardware store. It's located next to railroad tracks and looks to have been part of a mill harkening years back. The century-old cranky, creaky wooden floors are loyal to me; they are in sync with my every step. The farm relics, penny farthing bike, dusty original Radio Flyer wagon, and especially, the buttery scent of the popcorn in their antique popcorn machine reaffirm and enrich this experience even more. For this, I am ever thankful. 

Every excuse I find to visit this relic-filled repository is cause for a quiet celebration in my soul. The exposed beams and rafters there remind me of our 1831 Colonial farmhouse. I often wonder what hides behind our plaster walls;  I'd do anything to give them a voice. In my mind the conversations would revolve around family and farming; evidently, the founding farmer brought his family to this small town to grow produce on the two acres now home to our chickens and ducks. 

"I've been living in her world for years; there's no other way."

There was something about these captivating words that fascinated me. Their sentiment summoned my attention, kidnapped my entire being and held it captive.  The ransom involved releasing this intriguing, heartfelt tale from my blog-burdened brain while paying homage to these two women wandering a perilous, unmapped journey.  My rapt curiosity craved knowing more about "Mae's world" through the heavy heart of her daughter, Dalila.