A huge yellow cartoon dinosaur is demolishing Allen and Hudson's house across the street. I'm riveted. The claws reach down and rip off the roof in big strips of metal. A stone wall and fireplace go down in less than a minute. I watch as the garage goes--along with it the house number 610. It is, as Will said (my son who's a firefighter) like a funeral, watching a house go down. The mirrors on my walls are shaking.
Door frames and windows and walls are being heaped into a pile and the house, after two hours of work with the Big Cat, is now gone. A hundred-year-old house, the lives it used to shelter, gone.
A house like a life takes so long to build. All our knowledge and experience can be gone in one fell swoop. Do I sound morbid? I won't overworkf the metaphor.
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