A house I love is coming down. i saw the fence around it today, the dumpster in the driveway, equipment ready nearby, and signs on the front lawn foretelling the inevitable.

It’s a charming house. Ivy covered brick Tudor, with lannon stone steps, gracefully arched roof lines and dormers that hint at the rich life beyond their windows. It’s the kind of house that says, “This is where people lived and ate and laughed and raised their children, and invited friends to share holiday meals. It’s a house that says, “I will make you comfortable.”

And it did over the decades. I knew the owners—one gone now, too quickly, and one living elsewhere. That happens when you age, and the house, always older than you, needs more care than you can give it.

I suppose there is a life to houses. A time to let them go.

But as I stand across the street, gazing at the wooden front door, those craggy stone steps, and remember the countless times I climbed them, the smiles that greeted me, welcomed me in, I feel the warmth emanating from each room’s walls enveloping me like a cashmere shawl, and I have to blot tears away. Houses cannot help but absorb the kindness and generosity of their owners, and reflect it back on everyone who enters them. The house may come down, but the warmth stays.

So, I move on as I must, wrapped in a memory. Because if I linger, It will fall apart in pieces, with each brick removed, window broken, stone smashed, until the disassembly is complete.

But perhaps I’ll come back when the ground is bare and ripe for digging, anticipating a new foundation. Perhaps I’ll lay an image of the old house there, anchored by some stones. The future home deserves such a blessing. All homes do….

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