I remember the small stuff.
It’s funny what sticks in your mind after something like this. Things in my office that I’ll never see again. None of it is important really but it’s strange, I know exactly where it’s probably sitting (lying) in that room that I’ve spent a large part of my life for the past 3 years. A room which will no longer exist in a matter of days or weeks when the wrecking ball comes.
The view from our 4th floor office to the east was amazing. Madras St was the final strip of ‘skyscrapers’ in the central city east. Beyond our building was just houses and suburbs to the sea. Our shared kitchen and staff room was the scene of many great debates, conversations and delicious lunches. Head-shaking over letters to the editor, discussions about the ‘correct’ way to load the dishwasher, backyard permaculture, recycling and generally putting the world to rights.
So many people lost so much more in buildings just a block away. So many people didn’t get to walk out into the drizzle of a dreary Tuesday lunchtime and count themselves lucky.
I walked over papers, furniture, broken glass, out into the rest of my life.
But I remember the little things – an umbrella, a rain jacket, two photos of Seraphine, a box of chocolates I was saving for my colleagues, birthday cards, some books of poetry, a phone charger, my diary, a notebook from Bulgaria.
All so clear in my mind, lying there like lost toy soldiers in the garden.