Sunday, October 18, 2015

You Can't Go Home Again

On Saturday my daughter Lori met a woman who does watercolors of houses.  "Maybe we could have her paint one of our house," I said, thinking it would be nice to have a picture of our home of 44 years that I sold after the flood.  I had promised myself I would never drive down our old street, that it would be painful, but I thought the plants in the front yard might be dead and would spoil the picture.
"Let's drive over and take a look," Lori said.  I was hesitant but I did want the picture.  So off we went. 
"I'm closing my eyes," I said when we turned down our street.  "Tell me if it looks okay."
"Oh. My. God!" Lori said.  "It's gone."
Logically I knew the builder who bought the house would tear it down and build a newer, bigger one.  But so soon?  I opened my eyes and there was an empty space.  Only the redbud tree and the crape myrtle and a few sad looking plants near the street still stood.
It made no sense, but I was in shock.  I dropped my head into my hands and clamped my eyes shut again.  Yes, I was glad to sell the house so quickly.  No, I didn't really miss it.  Still I sighed, "It's like 44 years of my life have been bulldozed away."
So we won't have the watercolor, but we do have photographs and no matter what, the house is still here in my head...and in my heart.
P.S. No, that's not a picture of the lot--it's one from Google Images. 



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