Can’t go home again…

…cause it burned down.

Thankfully, it doesn’t sound like anyone was hurt, although we haven’t yet been able to contact the neighbors we grew up with. They’re not answering their cells, but I figure either they left the house without them, or they just haven’t had time to charge them. Or they just need space to assimilate all this. I feel terrible for them; they’ve lived in that house almost 20 years, raised their kids there, and even though no one was hurt, I have no idea what they lost: photos, keepsakes… *sigh*

For myself, I took photos of everything that was important to me when we moved, knowing I’d never be able to knock on a stranger’s door and say, “Hi, I used to live here. Mind if I look around?” But there’s something sad, something that shakes my worldview a bit, knowing that it’s all gone–the first tree I ever learned to climb, the blobs of paint that looked like elephants, the spyhole in the staircase, our attic kingdom of Utopia–all gone. I feel unmoored.


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