WC6: Packing
When you leave a place, what do you take with you?
The noxious smell coming off the demolition site filled my senses. A mix of dust and machinery. Hints of wood, plaster, plastic, exhaust fumes, a cigarette, something sweet. You could see the vapour, the spirit of the house, gently drifting up and away.
The crunch and crash of walls being torn. A roof collapsing. More smoke. More dust. A window smashes. Glass shards light the scene up with dazzling sparkles. For only a moment it seems almost beautiful to see.
Something catches my eye. A reflection off something. I spot the pink pieces of a broken mirror scattered amongst the dark house remains. An oasis of comfort amongst a war zone. It contrasts with the chaos around it, calmly accepting its fate as the wood creaks and cracks desperately trying to hold its shape. To keep the house alive.
A bell rings in the distance. The machines come to a stop. The engines slowly rumble themselves into a slumber. The house relieves itself, creaking into a restful state for the night. A timber beam crashes to the ground, whatever was keeping it up finally giving up and resting.
Silence descends on the field of battle. The war is not over. It will begin again as it always does in the morning. The house with renewed spirit ready to fight to its last.
The golden orange sunset blesses the street and I make my way across.
I cautiously look around me as I approach the pink shards. Carefully crouching over and picking them up. I examine them more closely. They are plastic with a flowing pattern that wraps itself around each piece. I imagine what it must have looked like whole.
A dog barks in the distance. I place the pieces carefully in my collecting case. Taking one last look around before retreating back across the street.
Returning home I go straight to my office. Opening the container and gently placing each piece where it belongs on my shelf.
Taking a step back I admire the story I’ve weaved. A googly eye here, probably from some toy. A barely legible manual for a microwave. Some petals preserved in resin. And now pink plastic shards held in their rightful places outlining an empty oval space at their heart.
What kind of life, what kind of story would this tell someone I wonder. Would you even suspect these weren’t from the same house? From the same person? From the same family?
The more we think we are different from one another, the more we become the same. At least thats the story I tell. Through this piece. And through the endless ashes, endless remains, we leave behind. House, corpse, they each tell a story but in the end become the same.