If our living room walls could talk they would tell you of the eternal jumble of stuff, carefully edited from evidence with framing and shallow depth of field. A jumble that re-emerges moments after it is cleared; an onus like Sisyphus rolling his ball.
If my newly declared *office* walls could talk they would tell you how happy they are with a generously donated desk, large enough to house all the accouterments of working from home. Glad for the relief their owner feels at the sheer beauty of a space to herself (and a door with a lock).
If the hall bathroom walls could speak they would tell you that the toilet desperately needs scrubbing.
If the walls that house the sons' of the home could talk they would boast of the honor of guarding small sweaty boys that dream sleep under their protection all night, every night.
If the kitchen walls could talk they would rave about the wonderful food that they host... then rant about the dirty windows and the non-functioning stove that can only broil things.
If the walls of his wood shop could talk they would tell you of vigilant organization, the sultry smell of tung oil and wood and hope. So much hope.
If my shower walls could talk they would marvel at the delight of a warm evening shower when 3 days ago it would have been ludicrous in the 100 degree heat. Then they would marvel at the unkind thoughts their humans have for their unclad bodies, bodies that house them and harmonize them with such loyalty.
Our bedroom walls do not talk here ... the only thing they will say is that they are glad their residents have decided to reclaim said walls from boy snack crumbs and hemorrhaging piles of laundry. Glad indeed.
Home = Heart = Love = Me.