Thought I might share this with those who aren't on FB or didn't read it. I went and stood at a pile of sticks, nails and asbestos today. Under this rubble lied the first house I lived in, my fortress, the place I always felt safe, even though it was old and the locks didn't work, and it likely to catch on fire because of poor electrical work, and being heated by coal. I remember how I used to think that it would always be standing there at the corner. As I stood over it, I felt so empty and cold, like something inside me had died. Like a part of my life was still in there. I walked the same path I always did from the car to the door, but this time, there was no 2 story mid-19th century house, with a door that didn't fit, no leaky windows that as though you were looking through wavy glass. No mid 80's rusted car sitting in the driveway next to the pickup that didn't run. Everyone was gone. They had been gone for years, and as I walked back to my sedan, I realized, this was where my memories had been. It would never be the same. Though these memories came rushing back to me, I also remembered the place that everyone was at, and how, somehow, it was better than it was in my house where you could see the light in the basement through the knot hole in the 5th floor board in the hallway between the kitchen and the living room. As I made my way down the road, after leaving the wreckage, I realized, I still have these memories. They didn't get knocked down with my house, and I always will have them. They're something that will travel with me through my life. And I know that now that it's down, it marks the end of an chapter in my life. It reminds me that I need to do better than that. My childhood is gone, it's time to step up and be a man. Basically, the house I grew up in got torn down today, and it seems like it really turned the page into a new chapter in my life. Symbolizing that my childhood is over, and this is where I make or break it.