Raze a house, and you rip out all the things it held: every cross or kind word uttered; every game of Candy Land and Crazy Eights ever played. You suck out all traces of steam left from hot bowls of oatmeal, silence the tender words whispered in a dying man’s last days.
The rain came right on time that day, at tea time, driven hard on a blustery wind. I quickly closed the shutters to keep out the wet. The first big, noisy raindrops struck the house like hard pellets, before slacking off to a steady drizzle.