That house isn't much of a home any longer and I hate being there. I can feel all of the memory shards of grade school and the later years of high school swarming like a cloud of hornets.

The movie theater was torn down. I drove by and the construction cranes and bulldozers were playing in the dirt of its foundation. I remember my feet sticking to the brown linoleum floor inside, and passing drawings to Adam underneath the glass of the ticket booth. All of the walls were carpeted with tiny flecks of burgundy and grey and the air was suffocating and smelled like burnt butter. It was a dump, even compared to a one-room theater I went to in Martha's Vineyard that showed only one film, and the  projector broke halfway through The Happening. There were never enough tiles to spell out the movies' names on the marquee board, so most of them were abbreviated or spelled with numbers. Next to the theater was a rug store that was always having a clearance sale and was infamous for being a hub of prostitution.

There was a dance studio next to the movies that used to be a photography place where a lot of couples got their wedding albums done at. During the theater's last days some of the employees found a crawlspace in the common wall with a typewriter and boxes of old wedding negatives inside. Adam took a few boxes, but because he was at a loss for what to use them for, I took most of them. I sifted through the names on the envelopes and became determined to return them to their owners. I thought it would be nice to have the negatives back, since the photo places hoard them to ensure that their customers can't get re-prints unless it's through their business. I only returned one envelope anonymously, by accident because I had forgotten to sign my name to the note, but they figured out it was me and thanked me. Some of the negatives are taped to my window, other are spilled in the trunk of my car, but most of the them are still sitting in their envelopes.

I walked along the Delaware River on the toe path, but there was construction going on by the canal. The men were moving dirt. They seemed annoyed with me trying to take a morning nature walk because one of them halted the machine mid-move and gave me a look. The wing dam was poured over with the river, which was moving too fast to let me walk through it. I sat on a ledge of stone and watched the water ripple like braided hair over the dam and froth at the bottom like the corners of a mouth.

The small tag I put in the abandoned train car was glazed over with mud. There was more construction by the other cars further down the track, so I couldn't get on the path to access them. I drove up and down the streets looking for a hole in the fence. Everything had closed up to me. I wanted to see the drawings of the Gibson Girls I put up in the summer again, but it would probably disappoint me to see them dirty and peeling. Everywhere I turned to was controlled by a team of construction workers. What for? Everything was gone there, and nothing has been built up again properly. I felt so empty.

Eric sold his car. He sold his things, and his parents are replacing the carpet so, officially, the house can be sold. No one is home.

I took a drive to the cemetery and wandered around for awhile. I even approached the dilapidated house at the edge of the street and the stone wall for the first time, unafraid. It's usually covered in lilac. I found a double tomb in the ground, split in the middle by the forceful emergence of a red thorny tree with blackberries. The tree uprooted the tomb covers enough to see a black hole in the ground. I walked to the opposite side of the yard and looked over the wall at the wheat field that was golden and recently plowed. A little ways away were two small bouquets of bright plastic flowers. I hopped over the wall to collect them, and placed them in front of an old, lonely looking gravestone whose inscription had disappeared.