East Clinton

Nothing special. It was old, and you could tell. Mostly because the chipping paint that reminded me of and old mans wrinkly skin, the shingles that resembled loss of hair. I loved it none the less. It was home. Then. It had blue shutters that I always liked to compare to my eyes, and a warm, welcome interior that had a long colorful history behind its walls. Everything that has ever happened to me happened there. I lived there. We all lived there. After the divorce a man came, I knew that I didn’t like him and never would. My whole life was there but the color drained. He said that many, many things needed to be done to our Home, and everything was wrong.

It started slowly. First small things went missing or being taken out like when socks go missing and you blame it on your dryer. Then an atomic bomb hit the place. Well that’s what it looked like, and everything was being ripped, torn out or destroyed. The white crooked walls, our oak floors, cabinets, sinks everything. Then it moved to the out side. They stripped away the siding, along with its pride. I left that house. So did they. I guess they got sick of the smell. The noise. The continuous projects. But mostly how much money we didn’t have, that they put into it. It’s unfinished, and now unloved. I think what started out as some small fixing showed how much the family needed it more then the house. I haven’t been there in over a year, I know that house is empty like a box of cereal when you wanted the last bowl. Sometimes families tear easy like that, and we were weak.