Today after work, I came home by a different route, just for a bit of variety on the drive. Along the road where there used to be a house, there was nothing. They had torn it down, the ground was flat and grass had grown over it. There was no sign that it had ever been there, not even a basement, if there had been one.
Things like that sadden me. I had never been inside the house, and I didn't know anyone who ever lived there. And I realized houses are inanimate objects, but still, I think houses have stories to tell. I mean, I don't know how old the house was, but I'm gonna assume it was over a hundred years old, probably more.
How many Christmas' did kids run down it's stairs looking for presents? How many brides were carried across its threshold? How many pencil marks were the on doorways marking the growth of children? How many nail holes were there in the walls that had held up treasured photos?
How many husbands were told they were going to be fathers, and how many times, in that house? how many times had kids been grounded? Had there been news received of death of loved ones? How many discussions of politics and religion took place around the dining room table? how many arguments over money? How many tears shed over so many sad happenings? How many tears shed over joyous happenings? Had anyone died inside the house? was anyone born?
How many coats of paint were there on the living room walls? And how many paint splatters were there under the living room rugs or carpet? How many family lived there? how many people passed through that house in its existance? Did anyone anxiously await news from or the return of sons and fathers from two world wars? Did someone huddle in front of the TV in last November 1963 or mid September 2001 and cry, in shock and unbelieving? Did anyone get that pony they were wishing for for thier birthday?
How many nights did people spend puking into the toilet after having too much to drink? How many times did someone burn themselves getting something out of the oven? How many times did the squeeky stair wake the parents up when the teenager came home after curfew? how many times was sex had on the kitchen floor? How many times did couples sit huddled together under a quilt watching the flames in the fireplace? how many evenings were spent on the front porch with a beer in hand and many stories being told?
And now, it's gone. And all those things are gone too. Like a dream. Like morning fog, disapated. Almost as if those things had never been. Like the house. Nothing marks that there was a house there. Nothing but the memories of those who were born, grew up, lived, and died while there.
And in the memories of those whose minds wander as they drive past...and ponder such things.
POLT
Aw, Dusty Gazongas, don't get down on yourself....um, can you get down on yourself? - Carl, Aqua Teen Hunger Force
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1 comment:
Your post definitely resonates with me. They've torn down an awful lot of buildings near me lately and it feels weird.
There are pix on my flickr site showing some of it.
And the other thing - I usually walk home from work. Yes, walk. Some days I vary the route and one day I noticed the building where a long deceased friend had his catering business. It's now a robotics store. Yippeee! That's a positive in my book.
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