There is a ruined little house across the street from me. Well, there used to be until today. An old woman lived there, and she moved into hospice care just before we moved here 1 1/2 years ago. Soon after, she died.
Her children, caretakers of the house and all living far off, forgot to turn off the water in the house, and last winter a pipe burst. Thousands of gallons of water sat in the basement until someone noticed. The mold permeated the foundation, walls, etc, so completely, that the house couldn't be saved. The property was sold, and today the house was demolished. My children and I watched for a while from our living room window. With a wrecking crane, two enormous skippers, and about two hours, a solid little brick house that had stood there for more than fifty years became a trash heap. Note the tiered curtains still fastidiously draped on the window.
The old woman and her family, when they were young, had been the only people to ever live there.
I wish I had known the woman, or at least met her. A neighbor told me that she had been an author of children's books. I had a strong desire, as I watched the crane's arm push over the chimney like a stack of legos, to run over there and scream at them to stop. While I'm sure the new house will be fine, or at least I hope it will be and not obscenely huge on the small property, I just wanted us all to stop and consider the little house. The memories it must have held. The life that was lived there. Good bye, little house.
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