Yesterday I finally had a chance to go see for myself where the old house used to be. They tore it down on Saturday and now all left is a hole in the ground. Not a stone of the house remained. I feel somehow that I’m less of a person because I’m not sad that it’s gone, that I’m only disapointed that I didn’t get to watch the wreckers crush it into the ground. My best friend was there to see them destroy it and she said she cried – thinking about the years, her childhood, she/we had spent there. I cannot seem to care about it. No tears inside me anywhere. I have looked. I have scoured the little looked corners of my nostalgia and have found nothing.
Is there something wrong with me?