Walls

When I first entered what had been a home and saw its walls smashed to dust, I was not sad. I expected melancholy, nostalgia, all those vices to which I'm prone. But the house has never meant as much to me as its habitation. Not charming, not built with special care, holding no history other than a dull story or two of former occupants. What past have we bequeathed? Yes, here K. and A. grew from babies. The walls have seen small adventures, sickness, danger, celebration. But I don't love them. I was unmoved to see them fall.

While awaiting movers, Alex had enjoyed a pursuit twelve years denied him. We gave him a marker and let him play Michelangelo to the wall canvass. His ephemeral art made them easier to destroy. Writing across surface supposed to stay blank was a nose-thumb, a way of not saying farewell. The crew surely smiled while they hammered his masterpieces to bits.

The house is derelict now: pits and mud, every effort obliterated from former gardens, ceilings in dumpsters and nude pipes.

Writing on the walls and snubbing the past we had there seem bad ideas. We are waiting for a future to inhabit the place, but we can't picture that arrival very well.