My House Was an Old Woman

My house was an old woman who married late but widowed young.
She collected teacups, pennies, and ceramic roosters.
Her garden was always in bloom but she never seemed to mind the peeling paint on the shy white picket fence.
My house was a grandmother in a past life but had somehow missed that episode this time around.
She never found a crossword puzzle she could not best. Some found it disconcerting.
You could tell by the way she moved that she was a dancer when she was young, never a wasted step.
My house never admitted defeat. Even when her veins started to stand out against her sleepy walls and ceilings and people started to talk about “remodeling.” When someone noted her age marks on the ceiling she was sure to point out that they were “beauty marks” and no one refuted her. Most likely because she was never without her knitting needles.
She would not slow; she had flowers to tend to. But eventually the white picket fence came down and the garden was left to fend for itself.
But the roses were stubborn, just like her, and refused to stop BLOOMING.
But, like everything, she grew old.
On the day we left she asked me, “Where are you going?” but I could not answer her. Soon she would be “remodeled” and sold to the first young couple who offered. Soon she would no longer be my house.
The next and the last time I saw her, she had been gutted, painted, and a fence had been put up. You could no longer see the roses.
She didn't recognize me, or I her, so I left before she asked me my name because I could not have stood that. It was enough that she was someone else’s; I could not bear being forgotten, too.