Everything Isn't There Anymore

Everything isn’t there anymore. It’s been going on for a long time now, but I’ve only started noticing it recently. Driving up Hanlon on my way to pick up PJ, I saw the white gravel pit that used to be Forlynn’s. Used to be, as in used to be last week. No lingering sickness of desperate gimmicks leading to the humiliation of Going Out Of Business as all hope for dignity withers away. With the obscene pennants and their forced, flapping smiles and Isn't it a pity? and I only hope the end comes quick. None of that. Just a sudden, senseless no more.

And then I started seeing all kinds of buildings that weren’t there anymore. That one-story apartment block with the florid graffiti. And the house next to the house next to that guy Alan’s. It was a nice house. Big windows filled with sunshine in the afternoons, but for some reason that didn't matter. Not enough. Now it’s just the absence of a house. The streets are filled with gaps. 901 Western, 903 Western, nothing, nothing, 909 Western, nothing.

How can these things just vanish like this? Did anyone see them dismantled? Did anyone hear the walls come down? One day, there’s a living thing there, with skin, veins, muscles, a heart, an electrical spark and pulse. The next, not even a hollow body to bury. Nothing but a vacant lot bulldozed flat. Somebody loved that house. Somebody feels its loss as a blow. An amputation. A death in the family or the failure of an organ. Something that means life will Never Be The Same Again. “The place I used to live.” “The house where I grew up.” “The restaurant where we first met.” Gone now.

And in their places, perfect new structures. No blemishes. They're waterproof. Sunproof. Windproof. Memories will slide right off them. They will have the smells of new chemicals, fresh from the factories. I’m watching now. I’m waiting to see it happen.