Pile of Memories

With the world of social media and technology I often find out devastating information via text message or Facebook. Sadly this seems to have become the norm over the last few years. Even though this odd means of news travel is a repeat offender the shock has not lessened any. Each time I am left infuriated by the mode of communication that was chosen, lack of respect that is felt, and a hurt heart when the information settles.

A photo in the form of a text message greeted me on Labor Day morning. The caption informed me that a house I spent a good portion of my childhood in; that many spent good portions of their lives in was gone, and an empty lot was what remained. All I could do was stare at this photo and search it over and over with my eyes. I am looking for anything familiar. Looking for any remnant of the familiarity that I once knew.

My late grandmother raised over a dozen children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, and other relatives all under one roof. Homemade meals would waft in Saturday morning air. Laundry would be manually rang out before clipped on a line to dry in the sunshine. Humming of hymns were a common tune, as were scriptures with life lessons. Crab apple fights would take place in the yard while crouched behind a car. Late night conversations would be whispered as the sandman was challenged. Stories of happiness and some with tears were shared on repeat. This is what I remember from the two story-two lot, cobble drive, screened porch home that was nestled on the south end of town. All of this was absent from the photo I saw.

If someone was to bulldoze these memories would they not want to tell those connected beforehand? How could all of this be taken away one piece at a time without informant? Seven digits, five seconds, a few words seem so simple. The audacity and entitlement that is self-appointed is mind wrenching.

What I have left is now represented by a flattened earth filled pile of memories…

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