The View Through the Fence

It’s happened. The house I grew up in is no longer. I’m not referring to its being sold. I mean that it no longer physically exists. Poof. Kapoot. Swung at by the yellow, heavy-duty construction machine known as an excavator, my decades-old domicile was knocked to its knees and then ignominiously broken apart and trucked away. 

In less than three days, the building dating to the early 1900s and occupied by Megerdichians since 1950 was essentially vaporized. The lone pine tree on the small lot was yanked out by the dreadful demolition behemoth. There’s no evidence of the foundation; just what appears to be a scooped out crater. Even the pediment of the free-standing metal garage, which I had painted decades ago with my own Armenian tri-color design, has been hauled out to be repurposed into widgets or soup cans. I’m homeless, but not in the usual sense of the word. I’m minus one home. Yes, I live in my new residence, but what I had physically of the former house is extinct. The myriad of memories I carry will serve as the basis for stories I write and paint.