Wake Up Call

Deconstruction

I awoke this morning to the sound of a mechanical hum, ripping wood and breaking glass. It couldn't be my neighbour mowing his lawn, as he does so often in the early morning. His grass doesn't crash when cut.

So I jumped out of bed and to my window, and through my sun-squinted eyes I could barely see this orange monster pulverizing a home across my alley. It was really a sight I didn't expect. A building once standing, now being crushed to rubble.

I actually dreamed of this recently, happening to my own home. I've been living in my home all my life. And I've been thinking of what lies ahead for this home. Will I, or my parents, sell the place? Will it be our home till its own demolition? Then I remember thinking, and seeing me, looking at the (future) deconstruction of my own home. And I couldn't help but notice a tear in my eye.

This is my home. All my birthdays and scraped knees, my crying and whining...all this stuff of growing happened here, in this place. I've invested in this home. I painted it about twice over. I've hid treasures in little cracks. It is the backdrop of all my photographs. The tacky iron railing that guides the staircase is the same one I grabbed onto as I learned to stand. I've baked banana bread in this place. I've prayed, and learned to pray, mostly in this place.

So what happens when home is deconstructed? When familiar breezes and smells no longer exist? When faces and voices become faint in memory?

I suppose a hammer will do. And some wood and nails. And a lot of effort to build again.