They took the roof off today. I stopped by the house four times. Each visit driving deep weird grooves into my amygdala. (From now on, every time I hear the Honeydrippers’ “Sea of Love”, I’m going to think a wall is about to fall down.)
You can see the green walls of our living room from the corner of Pasadena and Grover. For all the times we kept the kids from drawing on those walls or throwing things at them, now crow bars are going through them. They are going in the trash. The sheer mass of waste is staggering.
There might have been some more practical way to build a larger house that involved bulldozing and starting fresh. But we couldn’t have imagined it, and I’m glad we didn’t. The house is in major surgery, all bones and tendons and amputations. But it’s coming back, and it will still be the same house. Two rooms will be unchanged. Much of the floor plan and windows will come back. I want those goofy shutters and awnings back on when were done.
Tonight a tarp is rustling in the breeze and filtering the moonlight to a deep underwater blue in the remaining rooms. Tomorrow there is another dumpster to fill.

PS. We don’t actually have a fireplace, which kinda ruins the headline.