Preserved in Memory

It's gone now. Leveled, burnt, and what remained buried. Maybe it is better this way. I understand why it had to be torn down. I know structures aren't permanent. Time and the elements would have eventually consumed what the vandals did not. We will not have to watch the change over the years as the house turned into a skeleton of block and tin.

There is something sacred about an old home, the life and memories sheltered within those walls. To think the sanctuary of my childhood was defiled by people in darkness hurts more than the destruction itself.

But when I think of that house, I don't remember the ransacked interior, broken glass, boarded windows and doors. I remember Mamaw working in the kitchen, moving about, singing hymns. I remember Papaw sitting on the front porch in his chair, his legs crossed, his hands folded in his lap, greeting us when we came home.

Those are the things that will stay with me. Not the damage. Not the destruction. The laughter, the voices, the rooms, the feeling of being there. The feeling that, as a child, the house would always be there.

Both my grandparents and their home are only memories now. That time, that family, and that home were the center of my world, my reality as a child. Now, that world is only a ghost of what I remember. My grandparents and their home are safely locked away in the memories of family and friends who love them.

So yes, it's gone now. And perhaps that is for the best. There is nothing left for anyone to desecrate.