Ode to the wooden house in the town of three words

On the east side of my small island
There's a little town whose name contains three words
I was born to this town in a wooden house that has stood there since the beginning of time
It saw the birth of five generations

One could argue that she birthed those generations herself
The force of the ground beneath her brought them to life
And the pressure of her walls nursed them to health

Of her children, some were grateful
Others realized some houses were made of stone and could protect them better from the rain
So they would move on and treat her with disdain
Forgetting that it was her walls that rocked them to sleep

And with every realization against her
The foundations on which she stood would shake

But this house is special, you see?
Inside each crease in the walls there are memories
Laughter, fights and melodies
And every night the ghosts of past lives dance on her cold floors
Reminiscing days long gone

But nowadays her walls have grown thinner
And her nails have become rusted
As if her walls are too thin for all the stories they keep
She might collapse and let go of all that she holds dear
Releasing an eternal melody of laughter, arguments and love

But where ought those stories to go if the wooden house falls?
Where are they supposed to live if not between her walls?
Is this what He meant when he said it all returns to dust?