Torn

They bulldozed House #19 yesterday. I watched it all happen; the steely claws of the bulldozer tearing away at the walls, the brick chimney crumbling to the ground, the dust flying up from the wreckage. The place was dilapidated wreck, an eyesore, a hazard. And yet, I was sorry to see it tumble. Such mystery and wonder the abandoned little house held for me.

I close my eyes and try to imagine it in better days. Years ago, when the paint was fresh and the lawn was green, someone must have called it home. I picture a family. I see an aproned mother at the porch, a father-- tie loosened after a long day of work-- playing with his boys on the lawn. There is a dog in the picture, like Lassie of course. Neighbors walk by, waving as they pass. I wonder where they have all gone and how many years has it been.

Who has let the house fall away with the years? Is there anyone shedding quiet tears over old memories at the sight of the wreckage? I should have liked to have wandered through the home and listen to the quiet echos of the past and imagine what purpose and memory each room held. So much I would have liked to have known... But, the home is gone and with it a great deal of curious mystery. I must say, I was sorry to see it go.

Photography by Valerie Owens