That House in Barcelona

That House in Barcelona

I see the people standing on the sidewalk below me looking,
always looking, at the flowing lines and interesting facade of
the building. Their comments waft up to me in the clear
Summer air. I hear them as if I were still among them, these
fickle earth bound creatures.

It seems like so very long ago that I once walked among them
on these busy, peopled streets of Barcelona. I too once stood
and admired the intriguing lines of this "Batlo House, as it was
then called. But then something went amiss in the order of
things and I find myself here even now, these many decades
later, staring from within. I don't really know why I am still
here, it just seems like the place that I ought to be.

A century ago they remodeled my home, as I call it. An army of
workmen invaded the premises and altered this and repaired
that. I thought they would never finish. I did enjoy listening to
their conversation though. The Spanish workmen are a lusty
and vital lot. Their remarkable conversation was different from
that normally heard within these staid walls of gentility. I think
my mother would have fainted dead away were she privy to
their casual referrals to their social and physical congress. I
must admit that were I capable of the emotion, a flush would
have risen to my own ashen complexion after over hearing
many of their remarks.

I still haven't gotten used to the concept of "listening in to the
many tenants who have lived here over the generations. My
mother and father always taught me that it wasn't proper to
listen in on the conversations of others. But, there isn't much I
can do to avoid them now. And it does give distraction to the
endless days as they roll on and on. I have long forgotten why
I am here or what whim of kismet consigned me within these
walls. It seems somehow endless and bothersome, regardless
of the elegance of the lines of the structure. Houses do have a
heart and I guess I am chosen to be the center of this one.

The current "owners are nice enough. Their holidays and the
guests that come to visit are entertaining in a noisy sort of way.
I try not to intrude on them but sometimes I feel that the
youngest child senses my presence. She is at that age where
she is becoming a woman and is very sensitive to her
surroundings. I want to guide her and offer advice when I see
that she is troubled, but I know that it is not my time or place.
I am with those who sleep in repose now. My comments are no
longer sought or valued. I think it is that which I miss the
most, the notion that someone is aware of me and thinks of
me. Those who knew me are long gone from this house. They
no longer admire their stately home or take pride in its unique
appearance.

I will stand here by the window a bit more this day and listen to
the comments of the passersby. I will smile at their comments
and think of long ago when the horse drawn carriages rumbled
by with the jingling of the reins and the clopping of the horse's
hooves. It was a different Barcelona then. One in which I was
loved and comfortable. Now I have but the inner walls of this
house as my universe and I wonder how much longer I will be
here.

When next you wander by my home, on this street in
Barcelona, look up into the second floor window on the far left
and wave to me. Maybe you will even see me. But if not, look
for the shadows along the sides of the window at dusk. I will be
there watching as I always am. I will smile and wave back to
you. And maybe you will even find the courage to come in and
visit. If not, I will wait patiently for the next generation or the next. I seem to have plenty of time and no place else to be.

-30-

Joseph Xavier Martin

(713 words)