when a house dies

revisiting the past. . . .

The road runs straight along the bustling commercial areas in Roosevelt Avenue, a thoroughfare where motorists belch dark smoke into the sky. The house, or must I say, my father’s house, stands in front of a chainsaw shop and beside a garage crammed with busted cars and piles and piles of worn out tires. Everyday engines roar through the thin walls and the groans and grunts of the machines slice heavily through our conversations.

My father built the house of wood, plain and square with his own hands, so I was told, on a few square feet of land which, unfortunately, weren’t his. It had low ceilings, uninsulated walls and no bedrooms for a family of five kids. My parents slept in a room adjacent to the main house. Yards and yards of curtains, like the one that hid the double deck bed I shared with my older sister, gave some privacy. There were no closets so I either hung my clothes on nails pounded into the walls or on a clothesline tied in my bedside. I don’t remember having a dresser until I was much older. In the living room was a partially cushioned sofa, a two-tiered sideboard and a long legged television which heated up quickly after a two-hour viewing.

The house sheltered me and my family safely despite in its setting, a reflection of my father’s stern and selfish convictions and indestructible pride. In short, the house was my father, its content and design. The house was his voice. Though I admit how much of my character was formed in that house. We often heard him claim that the land was a gift from a close friend who owned a bakery nearby. My mother insisted that this was impossible which was enough to spark serious arguments between them. What gave him the idea that it was a gift and how did he manage to build the house without any permit? I didn’t understand then, but now I do.

Just as neighbours and residential houses began populating the other side of the road, the house started slipping from my father’s life and from our lives too. His complacency instigated legal suits and years of court appearances. I didn’t see my father build the house but I saw it slowly crumble into nothingness. One summer weekend a group of men geared with sledge-hammers demolished the house. The same day my father was pushing legal papers to the judge at the municipal hall. Why had he failed to secure a legal title for the land? I wished he’d swallowed his pride and accepted that he was wrong. I wished that he was more open-minded and learned to listen to us. I wished. . . . By the time he arrived his house was already half gone. Each plank of wood that was cracked, each nail that was wheedled out and each wall that was knocked down was like his body parts slowly being severed. He was dying inside and so was the house. The destruction made me want to cry or hit someone and seeing the house fall to pieces leaves me in a bleak, extremely misanthropic state of mind. I wanted to blame my father, shout at him but none of these actions were necessary anymore. After the demolition we were homeless and it was terrifying and humiliating to endure this once in a lifetime.

Amidst the chaos and debris my father built a temporary shelter for us to get through the night. I rested on the same bed and from there I looked up into the sky that was deep-black and brighter with slivers of moonlight flowing freely through our roofless shelter. My father believed he was going to fight to regain what was taken away from him. I lay awake for hours watching gazillions of stars turning in the sky. I started weaving my future.
I know my place.
I miss my past.

*****
copyrightbcoctober272003