All That Remains

All That Remains

🎶 Memory, all alone in the moonlight—

I can dream of the old days

Life was beautiful then.

I remember the time I knew what happiness was…

Let the memory live again. 🎵 ©️

I was beautiful once. I had style. Class. Substance. People flocked to my doors, begging to be included in my sphere of influence.

That was then. Now, all that remains is a shell of myself. 

Walls, floors, roof—these form a structure meant for shelter. Shelter I have afforded many, over the years. Those many who have lived within my walls… they’ve come, and they’ve gone. Now it’s my time to go. 

Outside my walls, there is a sign:

“CONDEMNED.”

A neon orange netting surrounds me, draped with yellow tape imprinted in black—like some sort of inappropriately flashy funerary bunting.

“DANGER! DO NOT ENTER!”

When did I become dangerous?

I was a place of safety. My builders took pride in creating me, a structure both strong and elegant. I was home to those who lived within. Whether they stayed for just a short time, or raised their families within my walls, I protected them.

My apartments were all reserved before I was complete. People came and toured, exclaiming over my beauty. It may just have been the glow of sunset, but I think my stuccoed walls were unusually rosy.

Over the years, those residents may have forgotten the ordinary days they spent here. I haven’t. I remember all of them. These walls, my walls, hold many private conversations. Innumerable memories. I’ve kept them, in case—one day—someone comes for them. I will share a few of them before… before I go.

Addie and Bill. They were a retired couple, the first resident managers. 

Addie often warned, “The walls have ears.” 

She really meant, “Be careful what you say; someone may overhear a private conversation.” Little did she know, her words were true.

The Mills family. Alan, Betsy, Susie, and the baby. 

“Oh, Susie, where’s your other glove? Daddy’s waiting in the car already with the baby!” Betsy hurried her little daughter down my beautiful curved staircase. She didn’t trust my magnificent elevator. “We’re going to the city, you know; you must be properly dressed!”

Susie shrugged and turned her pockets inside out, putting on an innocent look. I happen to know that she dropped a glove on purpose! She didn’t like wearing gloves; I had heard her say so. 

She didn’t like me, either. 

“Stupid old building!” she scowled, pitching a rock at my classical portico. She hit it, too. Scuffed the marble. I’m sure she won’t be coming back, even for memories’ sake. 

Just inside my main doors, a box was kept. It was Addie’s idea. 

“Honey, why don’t we put something by the door for Lost and Found? I’m forever picking up bits and pieces.” She held out a single white glove. “I found this on the stairs. One of the children must have lost it.” 

Bill produced a disused milk crate. Addie made a sign, and set the crate in the corner. The glove was soon followed by a tiny yellow toy car, a colorful spinning top, and a pocket-size address book full of neat writing.

The car and the top belonged to Ricky Masterson. He came back for some memories not long ago. I saw him approaching, holding the hand of a small girl who had to take four quick steps for each of his long strides. 

I didn’t realize how many years had gone by. Ricky had matured into a gray-haired man, but I still knew him.

“Look, Sarah.” He bent slightly and indicated my stately French doors. My once proud green awning, now faded and mildewed, fluttered raggedly in the breeze.

“This is it! This is where Grandpa lived before the house.” 

He ushered his granddaughter into my lobby, gazing around.

“It looks… worn. And old,” he murmured sadly. Then he perked up a bit.

“See this? I used to slide down this banister.” He ran his hand lightly down the polished surface, burnished smooth by decades of young boys—and the occasional girl—sailing down the gleaming spiral.

“Oh! Grandpa! Can I try?” Sarah squealed, bolting halfway up the flight before he could prevent her.

“No, no, Squirt. It wouldn’t be safe, and besides—” he noted the budding objection, “we don’t live here. Come on down now.”

“What’s that thing? It looks like a cage!”

The little girl pointed a stubby finger at the wrought iron compartment nestled in the curve of the staircase. Her eyes grew round. “Grandpa! Did they keep a aminal in there?”

“No, punkin, it’s an elevator. But you’re right! It’s called a birdcage elevator, just because of what it looks like.”

He stood, absorbing some of the memories I held. I gave them to him, yet still retained them for my own. 

When they left, he turned around and gave me a small wave. 

Some of the last inhabitants were Scruffy Joe and the stick lady. They arrived some time after the last paying residents had gone. I didn’t mind; it was nice to have company again. And the cockroaches were glad of the few scraps of food they dropped. 

At first I just called the man Scruffy, because he was. I learned his name was Joe when Glenda next door complained to a visitor, 

“Now there’s a Joe Schmoe squatter living there.”

Glenda seemed put off by her new neighbor. I think Scruffy Joe was just a man down on his luck. He never hurt anything—at least not on my premises, and he let the stick lady stay too.

I never knew her name. I called her the stick lady because she was always collecting sticks, and she was thin as a stick herself. Never did anything with them, except count them. Over and over and over. She stored them in the left-behind Lost and Found box. With the address book that was never claimed.

Sid Porter discovered the unauthorized occupants and threatened to call the cops.

“Hey! You can’t stay here!”

“We got nowhere else.”

“I own the building. It’s a safety hazard.”

Safety hazard! I burned with shame. Or maybe it was just the heat of the day.

Soon after that, the sign went up and the tape closed me off.

My birdcage elevator, a once glorious amenity, has been taken away. It’s all right. The workings need to be refurbished anyway, and the machinery will be of service again—perhaps in a retro luxury hotel.

My spiral staircase? Dismantled. The gorgeous mahogany has been taken for salvage. I like to think it will be marvelously remade into custom pieces of furniture, marketed as “reclaimed wood from the late Victorian era”.

And what of my many windows, tall and slim, with fine beveled edges? They have been carefully removed and hauled away. When they were taken, I was left with a blank visage. Hollow. Empty. I hope they give new vision to another building.

I have been pithed. The essential part of me—the core—has been removed.

As far as I know, my location was carefully considered by my architect. Now, it seems, I’m just in the way. Through no choice of my own, I’m on the wrong path.

Tomorrow, I have an appointment with a wrecking ball. I will no longer be a concrete thing, but abstract. Living only in memories. But that’s all right.

All that… remains.

©️"Memory [From Cats] Lyrics." Lyrics.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2023. Web. 12 Jan. 2023. <https://www.lyrics.com/lyric/3514238/Sarah+Brightman/Memory+%5BFrom+Cats%5D>.