"It's just stuff. It's just a house," I keep saying.
But it breaks your heart.
I know it could be worse. We have our health. We have each other. We've bonded as a family through this more than we would have without it. But still.
Demolition is set for tomorrow. It's exciting and sad. We're one day closer to a new house, but we have to say goodbye to our old house.
Nearly everyone that has walked through the aftermath can't believe everything has to go.
"Why can't this be saved?"
"It's a shame that has to go."
I've had the same thoughts. I could save a piece of the coffered ceiling, or some of the baseboard, or some piece of wood and just make something out of it later. That's where I stop.
If I save a piece of wood, how long will it sit in the garage until I throw it out? Attached to that piece of wood will come guilty feelings for not taking the time to make something out of it. Then, after it becomes clear that I'll never make anything out of it, it will produce guilty feelings for throwing it out.
The wood, the mirrors, the toys that seem fine (but are probably covered in things I wouldn't want my children putting in their mouths) are going. I'm ready to start over.
And, while I mention the urge to simplify, I find myself obsessing over how we'll change the house, the decorations, the furniture.
It's something I struggle with. I have an app on my phone that puts a vast library of images of homes and furnishings at my fingertips. I think I've finally come to terms with minimizing changes to the house. We'll keep it as close to the original as possible, with some minor changes to add convenience or storage.
Demolition starts tomorrow. Another step in life post-fire will begin. Eventually, we'll struggle to remember the way the house looked and felt, which is something to mourn about. We will, however, make memories in our new house.
It's just a house. It's just stuff. But it breaks your heart.
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