And here we have the lounge room. The cosy centre of family life, with its gas wall heater, wall to wall carpets, family memorabilia on the mantle and the walls, the worn armchair where father reads the daily paper of an evening, and the ever present pink noise of the television in the corner.
Right where the broom is, that’s where the puppy piddled on the carpet with happiness when we brought her home from the petshop. Do you remember? And just above that spot, on the wall, the photo we got those Americans to take of us all in front of the Eiffel Tower when we did our grand tour of Europe.
“tears in rain”
The old folk who lived here? Dead. I can’t even remember their names, though we lived around the corner these 40 years. The kids? One dead in a a car accident of his own binge drinking making. One married and divorced, after her lawyer husband beat her one to many times. The third one… the pretty one.. I have no clue.
City life. City death. Homes built. Homes destroyed. Only sometimes it’s obvious when a home has been destroyed. The wreckers are there, and it’s gone. Most times a home is destroyed you would never know.