This house makes noises. It creaks and moans. Hardwood floors sag. Toilet runs.

The staircase is not to be trusted, broken boards, and a railing coming loose. They used to sleep in the bedroom up there. Now that she’s gone, he sleeps in his easy chair downstairs; a blanket she sewed keeps him warm from the draft.

He thinks he hears her voice at night. Talking to him the way she used to. Complaining about his snoring and gas. But, it’s only the wind howling through.

She died back in ’97. Cancer got her. Died in the bed upstairs. She didn’t get treatment. Saw it as a blessing coming to her. She was done with this life.

The old man didn’t question her. He figured she was entitled to make her decisions. She’d been through enough. The arguments, infidelity. He thought she deserved a rest.

And he sits there each night. Listening to the house moan and groan. Feeling wind blow in. Floors creaking when he walks to the refrigerator to grab a beer. He turns on the TV with no picture and listens to Lawrence Welk. Champagne music mixed with memories.

This house makes noises.