I never heard the sirens in the early morning hours. I had no clue that just across my back yard and through the woods someone in our old neighborhood was losing their home and everything in it. All the family pictures, the antiques, their personal belongings, the tangible reminders of times long since passed, much of what they owned . . . everything . . . gone in a matter of minutes.

It was a house I had always loved, one that always fascinated me. Growing up I would look at it from a distance as we drove by and admire the huge yard, the stately trees and the wonderful architecture of the house, the likes of which I had never seen. Nestled on several acres behind a row of commercial buildings, it was right off what would become one of the main streets of the town, but far enough off the road that I really thought you’d never notice the traffic if you were fortunate enough to live there. When my children were very young we moved into a house that was just down the street from the backyard—a backyard that joined the swimming pool where they learned to swim—a pool they could easily walk to from our house. They were as fascinated by the property as I had been and would often talk about who lived there and what it must be like.

It was an older home, built in 1907 and inhabited by a prominent family who eventually sold it to another prominent family who eventually sold it to the current owners. I was fortunate enough to be invited to that house when I was younger, invited by the second family for a wedding party of some description. My invitation allowed me to roam at will and roam I did, treasuring every moment of the adventure and committing every nook and cranny to memory. The old tile floors, the claw foot tub, the wonderful trim and staircase, the original hardwood floors—they all beckoned me, whispering that I should live there and claim it for my own.

In later years I was again a guest at this magnificent home and again my invitation allowed me to roam at will. Much was the same as it had been before; the last owners had blissfully seen fit to leave the tile and the hardwood and the tub and I was deeply grateful to find that improved did not have to equal new. As I roamed I recommitted every nook and cranny to memory, relished every moment I was allowed to spend within its walls.

And now the house is no more. A few chimneys, the porch steps and a pile of ashes are just about all that remain. I breathed a prayer of thanks when I learned no one was hurt. Early morning fires can catch you by surprise but fortunately there was no one there to be caught. Although the material possessions are gone, the precious lives of the inhabitants are not. All else pales upon reflection.

But there is still loss to be faced. There is still grief over what once was but can never be again.  Much of what is gone was steeped in history, their personal history . . . the history of those who came before them . . . a piece of the town’s history . . . a piece of mine and my children’s.  I know, despite their safety, as the days pass the realization of what has been lost will grow greater and there will be a time of mourning. We can’t help that; we are human and great loss of any kind, be it material possessions or life, brings with it a sadness that lingers indefinitely. And while they mourn their personal loss, those of us who loved the house will mourn its passing and grieve with them over the tragedy they have suffered.

The post The House appeared first on Shackelford Funeral Directors | Blog.