Addition by Subtraction

If walls could talk, would anyone even want to know what I have to say?

Not these two, that’s for sure. They wouldn’t care. Mr. and Mrs. Millennial, waltzing through here like they already own the place.

“What if we knock down this wall?” The woman says, pointing at me.

What a terrible thing to say. I would never say that kind of thing to someone if I could talk, even if I was thinking it.

“Yeah, sure.” The man replies. “It would make feel more open.”

They walk out of the dining room and head upstairs. I wish they would leave. The house would feel more open without them in it. They don’t belong here. They’re not part of this place like me.

I’m an interior wall in a charming little house built in the 1970s. We’ve been “updated” over the years, but we’re still going strong. I separate the kitchen from the dining room and serve as a centerpiece for the first floor.

The , the first owners, used me to showcase the family photos. Those were the good old days, a collage of old photos of the Wilson kids smiling at you as you walked through me into the kitchen.

Yeah, that’s right, you can walk right through me. I bet you can’t say that. I have a doorway, but no door, and I am beige on one side (dining room) and white on the other (kitchen.)

“So, what do you think?” she asks him after they return from upstairs.

I don’t know what goes on up there. The first floor is where all the action is anyway.

“It’s got good bones,” he says. “It’s in a great neighborhood, the price is right.” He leans on me with his left hand. His breath is a little too minty.

“But the kitchen is so small.” She pokes her head through my doorway, scowling at the narrow path to the refrigerator.

“Nah, it’s like you said,” he taps on me with his fingers. “We’ll rip this wall out and it’ll totally open up.”

“Yeah?” she smiles. “Should we go for it?”

“I mean, it’s up to you,” he says. “But I think it’s what we’re looking for. We’ll figure out the money, right?”

She smiles. They talk some more and hug before they leave. I might have been happy for them if I was in their plans. They’ll probably have a nice life here. It might have been fun to watch them grow their life together. But their plans don’t include me, so to hell with them.

I’ve seen it all here. The brought Tommy home as a newborn. He’s 50 now, far away from here. I can still recall the scene when 3 year-old Sarah met him for the first time. I watched them grow up. remember lots of scenes. The fighting, the laughing, the tears, the hugs, the big family dinners, and the ones. The living. This house has always been full of life.

I’ve been painted over 6 times. Lots of different colors. I’ve had food stains, been on in crayon, and banged into more times than I can remember.

I had to be patched once in the 90s when Mr. Rockwell (the third family to live here) got so that he punched right through the drywall on the dining room side. That hurt me more than it hurt him, even though he’s the one that bled.

After they patched the hole and spread joint compound across the patch, I was as good as new. I was changed, always reminded of his anger by the imperfection inside me, the gypsum crumbs resting on my bottom plate. But once they'd painted over the smooth compound, no one else could tell what I’d been through. How scared Mrs. Rockwell and I were that night.

Who’s going to remember the people who loved and lived in this little house once I’m gone? Don’t they know how complicated the phrase “let’s knock this wall down” actually is.

You might think I’m a simple wall, but there’s much more to me than . I’m the sum of my parts, for sure. Wood, nails, drywall, joint compound, paint. I have cabinets on my back.

I felt every screw as it pierced through the drywall, and through the 2x4 studs when they attached cabinets in the kitchen. But those screws and the cabinets themselves became a part of me. I’m able to store your plates and dishes and food. Where are you going to put all that when I’m not here?

I dread when they take those long screws back out.

I help hold up the ceiling joists. You will need a beam to replace me, to reinforce the second floor. A big beam. You’ll need to build temporary walls, one on each side of me, to hold the ceiling up while you dismantle me.

A bunch of smug two by fours thinking they can do my job, to go on to some other purpose in a days. Some of them will probably even help hold up the beam that ultimately replaces me. Those bastards.

Part of the beauty of a wall, something that people often overlook, is what I can hide. I’m built to hide , electrical wires, plumbing pipes, heating ducts. They will have to be rerouted. It won’t be easy. It’s not a simple project.

My wires won’t be part of me anymore, but the outlets and light switches will still be connected to the electrical panel in the basement. It’s weird to think about. Do you have any wires in you? Are you able to give life to appliances? Technically it’s not me, but it’s a part of me. I don’t the power, but I host it. don’t think that dopey couple can say that.

And plumbing? You have blood flowing through you, but have you ever heard it? You can hear mine. I can feel my drainpipe rattle when someone lets all the water out of the tub above at once.

I’ve even had inside me, scurrying around, transporting acorns through me. Talk about a surreal feeling, living crawling around inside of you. One of them died here years ago. There’s a mouse skeleton within my wood skeleton. I didn’t like it at first, but I’ve come to accept even that as a part of me.

The couple returns months later with their contractor and his team. They’ve had the inspections, signed all the papers, and they’re ready to go. It’s demo day. My .

The drill whirs and the cabinet screws back out, one by one. Without my cabinets, I feel lighter, younger even, but I also feel empty, naked.

Why are they doing this to me?

I’ve had my cabinets changed once before, but that was fun. Exciting. A new opportunity, a fresh look and feel. Out with the old and in with the new. This is different. This is the end. I’m the old this time. On my way out.

I think back to all the different guys who helped build me, most of them probably not around anymore. The framers who banged me together and moved on to the next wall. Fast and impersonal. I don’t even remember what they looked like.

Then there were the electricians, who drilled through my studs and threaded their wires up and over, making connections, giving me life. The plumbers drilled more holes and ran their pipes through. The drywall guys covered up my insides, concealing my power within. They spoke French.

The tapers, the painters. Cabinet installers. Carpenters who installed the trim. When they changed the cabinets twenty years ago they added a nice crown molding. A new picee of me that would be one of the first to go.

It took a team to put me together. Countless adjustments here and there. The ducts for the new AC a years ago. New outlets. The painting. I am the product of hours and hours of hard work.

What would these guys think if they knew their efforts were being undone? That new versions of themselves were being hired to undo and redo what they had done. Would it pain them to see my demise? Probably not. They’re not getting ripped out of their home.

a job for them. I’m grateful to them and I love how I am made up of pieces built by individuals. But those individuals don’t care about me. No one does. Even Tommy, who rubbed his baby food drenched fingers all over me, has moved on.

Crack! The sledgehammer smashes through the drywall. Gloved hands big pieces of drywall off my studs.

A new team is taking me apart. These guys are different from the ones that put me together. People think and act differently from 40 years ago. But , they’re all the same. They still are here to do a job. They still see me as studs and wires and pipes and not the mighty wall I was for so long.

Plumbers cut my pipes and cap them off. The HVAC guys re-work the vent to come out in a different wall. Electricians disconnect my wires and pull them back through the holes in my studs. The wires and switches and outlets will all be moved to the other wall.

The couple seems so happy. Rotted mouse remains don’t even phase them. He’s put into a big garbage bag to be tossed into the dumpster with the rest of me.

Don’t they understand the pain of being ripped apart piece by piece, most of me ending up in a dumpster? Imagine if it were you.

I’m stripped bare. No cabinets, no drywall, no pipes or wires. my skeleton remains. They’re coming with their saw to cut the final nails, to separate the studs from my top and bottom plates.

Don’t do it!

Please.

But no one can hear me. I am a wall. A bunch of building materials arranged in a certain way. They’re rearranging those materials after all these years.

It’s not fair. It’s not right. I won’t be me anymore.