The last two days have been a roller coaster to say the least. I finally received the message I've been waiting for: demolition of the remains of the house Madelaine and I lived in would be starting up. I sat and watched as an excavator tore at the collapsed remains, hoping for small pockets of preserved memory. I'm thankful we were able to find what we did (and aside from a couple needle in haystack level hopes we ended up finding most of what I had hoped).

Writing this I can barely keep my eyes open. I haven't really slept, and after about 12 hours at work yesterday I spent another 9 searching for what could be salvaged and kept as a memento. I'm thankful for the excavator operator (whose precision with that machine is nothing short of awe-inspiring), and the head of the company in charge of the removal for their understanding and willingness to help me find what we could. I'm very thankful to my friend who stood there with me in the cold (he hates the cold) so there would be someone else there both to look and just so I wouldn't be at it alone.

All in all the process of removing everything took roughly 12-14 hours. By the time we were leaving yesterday evening it looked like they were mostly sweeping and shoveling instead of using the excavator; nearly all the large debris had been removed at that point. The place I called home with Madelaine for the last year and a half, where Merlin and Morgan had been with us for just over a year, and where nearly my whole life was? Reduced to what was functionally an empty lot that just needed sweeping, shoveling, and probably a power wash to get rid of the mud. It didn't even take two full days of work to get there.

Before we left I stood where Madelaine's office space once resided in what once was our basement. I could almost see the life we had been building together around me. It was almost like I could reach out to stroke her hair, or pet Morgan who would usually be in the windowsill hammock next to Madelaine's desk during her work day. Then I blinked and remembered the reality: I was standing in an empty shell. A hollow husk.

I wasn't alone, at least. My friend was nearby, likely saying his own final goodbyes, remembering what was; another stuck at work checking in to see how we were holding up. A few others reacting to mementos I'd taken pictures of and shared after the brief light of finding them. My situation could certainly be worse. I'm trying to see the hope again, and there are brief moments where I do. Then I blink, and I look around at the empty shell.