The Corrigans’

The Corrigans’

          This place is dark and desolate—an oblivion. Beneath the heavy shadows of nightfall, the house—no longer a home—sits atop its solemn hill, hollow and forsaken.
          Yet once, this was no ordinary dwelling. Within these walls bloomed a life rich with laughter and love. Joy spilled from its windows, streaming like golden light through every crack and crevice, casting warmth into the night. Beauty graced its bricks and kissed its rooftop shingles, cascading down the verdant hill it crowned like sunlight on morning dew. Birds composed new melodies upon encountering this gentle sanctuary, and stray cats curled by the door, lured by the quiet kindness that pulsed from within. Neighbors were drawn to it like moths to flame, seeking solace in the radiance of the Corrigan home.
          Love dwelled here—not quietly, but vibrantly, unapologetically. You could hear it in the music lilting from the kitchen stereo, soft and steady. You could see it in the silhouette of Mr. and Mrs. Corrigan dancing slowly in the living room, framed by the bay window, her head resting on his shoulder amid the faded floral patterns of their favorite chair. You could smell it in fresh-baked bread, torn and shared among dear friends, between hands that knew the language of gratitude and tenderness.
          Now, I know those days were a kind of luxury—a rare and radiant chapter that has gently closed, but never faded. The untamed joy that once painted each moment in the Corrigan home remains, even as time erodes its physical form. The house may be dim and vacant now, the grass long dead, the shutters bowed with time—but as I pass by on my morning ride to work, I still hear Louis Armstrong’s “La Vie En Rose” drifting through the air, like a whisper from the past.
          Though fog clings stubbornly to the property and the songs of birds have grown quiet, I still smell Mrs. Corrigan’s homemade lasagna, the one she gifted us upon hearing of our engagement. Though the tulips lie wilted and weary, I still see Mr. Corrigan dabbing sweat from her cheek after a long afternoon spent in her flower beds.
          They may be gone, but the love they lived remains etched into the air, the soil, the memory. It has taken root in me, and it will remain there until my final breath. If my husband and I can build even a fraction of the life the Corrigans so joyfully created, I will leave this world a woman fulfilled beyond measure. There is nothing I want more for myself, for my children, than the love they so generously embodied.