I heard they tore down Grandma’s house; “‘twas too far gone,” they said.
They didn’t call in carpenters, bulldozers came instead.
I wasn’t there to see it crushed but had I been nearby,
With every blow to its dear frame, a part of me would die.
I guess the kitchen and the porch were likely first to go.
They cried out with the sounds of children playing long ago.
While Grandma rolled the biscuits out, we played on Grandpa’s cot.
Though it was placed behind the stove, it was our favorite spot.
The bedrooms on the second floor were next to feel the blow.
The roof, the walls, the windows crushed and pushed to rooms below.
The squeaking stairs, forever gone, the railing just above,
Those straw-filled beds, the hand-made quilts are things I’ll always love.
Bulldozers rode o’er piles of boards and scooped up the debris,
Then filled the cellar with fresh dirt, smoothed out for all to see.
The trucks were loaded, drove away, to leave without a trace
That hallowed place, our childhood home, which nothing can replace.
I should have bought it long ago, restored its sagging floors,
Repaired the broken windows and replaced its rotting doors.
But I lived oh, so far away, that dream could never be,
But mem’ries of my Grandma’s house will always be with me.