I see almost nothing there now but a patch of dirt. They have tried to clean it up as well as possible but you can still tell where the house used to be, where the walls stood and the concrete stoop squatted. I tell myself it isn't fair, but it is; the house's inhabitants were dead or moved out, the building itself nearly a ruin, and the land will be used for a much-needed hospital. I tell myself it should have been left for historical value, but it wasn't that old, and it wasn't that historical. In the end, I am justifying to myself, because I have so few reminders left of my life and I want so badly to remember.
I look down the street. My home is not the only one to have been destroyed to make way for the hospital. All of them have torn the earth and left their mark, and until that building covers them up forever they will still sit there, squat iron ghosts along a newly-busy block, wishing until their shadows disappear that someone will come and live in them and make them real again.
I wish along with them.