5216 Darien Blvd (Drastic Revision)

She did not call ahead of time because she wanted to surprise them. When she got there she stood at the bottom of the multi-colored stone walkway, as memories of her childhood flooded her brain like a pot of grits that had boiled over onto the stove. Ring around the rosy/ Pocket full of posies/ Ashes, ashes/ We all fall down, she recalled hearing as she gathered her jump rope and 24- pack of Crayola sidewalk chalk.  She could remember turning the water hose head to shower to wash away the hopscotch squares. Each step was like walking into her first class at a new school, slightly nervous, but still extremely thrilled.

She walked past the prickly ash bush that her green bouncy ball used to roll under. She could remember the small scratches that masked her arms from trying to retrieve it. Raising her right arm she knocked on the door. Not too loud, but not too soft. She noticed that it was open. The rusty doorknob hung low, and exposed a small glimpse of the inside. As the door haltingly closed squeaking like an old chair with a limp leg, she was stunned at what she saw.

Her childhood memories rapidly vanished as she scanned the damaged and abandoned living room. The plush green carpet sunk in with each step and reeked of mothballs. The crown molding that aligned the base of the floors was now coated with mildew.  The legs of the wooden chairs were dull, ashy, gray and the shiny top layer of red mahogany wood no longer remained. As she walked further into the house she felted constant drops on water landing on her shoulder. She raised her head and saw a vast hole surrounded by crumbled chucks of paint and cement, exposed water pipes, and what used to be her bedroom floor. The cotton like insulation dangled from the hole like the pendant bowl chandelier that used to be in the dinning room.

She paced back and forth. To the front door. To the kitchen. Then back to the front. She poked her head outside of the door like a Push Pop to make sure she had the correct address. It was 5216. But it was no longer the place she remembered playing hide-and-seek or tag. No longer the place she had thanksgiving dinners or where she raced downstairs to open her Christmas presents. I was unfamiliar, unrecognizable, and unidentifiable. No longer the place she called home. What once was a place that nurtured hundreds of orphan children was now a construction site.