Beside my house was a house. I think a small family that smoked pot fairly often used to live in it. It was already For Sale when my roommates and I moved in the summer before last, and it stayed For Sale until someone bought it and knocked it down. Here is the Google Street View picture of the house.
There was only an empty lot for a little while before they started building. I don’t remember the sound of bulldozers, and I haven’t heard the construction workers erecting the skeleton frame or the hammering together of the wood for the floors (two) or setting up the staircase. It seemed like one day I came home, and there was suddenly a half-finished house, and the sound of the tarp crackling.
Every time I pass it, to me, it looks and sounds like this.
I’m struck by the sparseness and almost fragility of the frame. I believe in the dense underbelly of the second floor. And the stairs, so complete, so finished, have come into the utmost of their being in a house not yet done–they’re so ready to serve their purpose, and I love them.