end of a chapter

I love architecture. I have studied and taught its forms and history; I have photographed it - old, new, in ruins, restored, pristine - all over the world. I had never photographed the ruins of a place called home for most of my childhood and youth. Having been immersed in World War II documentation and accounts over the last few weeks made the experience all the more resonant.

This was the hall on the top floor of the apartment building I grew up in. It burned six or seven weeks ago. My mother, 82, was evacuated and is fine. I was ten thousand miles away.

Today I walked the ruin. To the right were the attic sheds where we stored our treasures. To the left were the extra rooms where teenagers spilled over from the small apartments on the first and second floor. The second from the end was mine. I painted it orange, with a Chinese style mural of bamboo in white. I sunned in my bikini in the window dormer. My first boyfriend snuck up the stairs many nights, parking his bike behind the chestnut tree around the corner of the house, so my mom couldn't see it from the kitchen window.

The charred beams are beautiful. They held up that roof since 1949.
Time for renewal.
A chapter closed.
Another opens up but is not written yet.
What will it be?