In my neighborhood, for a cool million dollars you can buy a dump.
Of course, it’s not really a dump. It’s just neglected and so old and out of date that whoever bought it will probably tear it down. I walk by this house almost every day and it’s always shrouded in ghostly light.
Like a dwindling number of bungalows in my neighborhood, it was built in 1938 and has two bedrooms and one bath. And a detached garage with a sign that reads “Beware of Dogs.” The other day the power company was on scene detaching the electric wires and cutting off the gas so soon, very soon, it will disappear. Because it’s sitting on a fairly large lot, what arises from its rubble will probably be a monstrosity. A very expensive monstrosity with a view of the freeway. The real estate market is insane.
There’s something tragic about walking past an empty lot where a house once stood and so I have started walking to the other side of town.
I am slowing down, there’s no doubt. Clearing out closets, taking longer and longer walks. Rewriting and rewriting the same story as though shaving off bits of my life. I just put away the Christmas ornaments that have been hanging from potted plants for over two years. Each one was given to me by someone special … many gone … some just recently, others long ago. But wait. Didn’t Auntie Dottie just pass? I can still hear her laugh. Eventually it doesn’t seem to matter … the years between.
But there is tomorrow and perhaps the mural on the library wall will start to make sense. Certainly more sense than war and genocide and why anyone would pay over a million dollars to bulldoze a house.