My folks told me my childhood home in the heart of the posh Harvard Yale neighborhood had been completely ripped open waiting for an impending remodel.
The remodel is 3 decades over due, maybe even 4.
I lived there my whole life until I married….
They also told me my oldest sister cried when she saw it.
It was overwhelming to see.
Not because of what was gone or what will never be again but because of what IS.
I honestly know every single centimeter of this house and land. I could trace the concrete ridges in the that bottom step from memory alone. I know the shadows, the sounds, the smells, the faces in the cracks in the tile. A life time was lived there dreaming of turning the house upside and living on the ceiling, of breaking world records for swinging while listen to Cool & the Gang. The pool, the dog, the cats, my sisters. Something about raspberries, a backyard pool, cousins, and a boat. For me it will never be gone every night when I dream of a house it is always this house, forever perfectly imprinted in my heart and soul. 
My bedroom window, if walls could speak...
They say 'you can never go back home'.
I think home is something you never really leave behind.
That is completely disheartening to see. I remember driving by the house I grew up in - spent my entire life there until I married (anyway, one of the times - hee hee) and seeing that the city had pulled down all of the trees in front of the house to put in a sidewalk. I was heartbroken to see those trees that I had climbed and that were almost fifty years old just ripped out.
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