Leo’s House

We had a field behind our house. My son used to play there with two of the neighbor’s girls. They were children back then and from our terrace we could see them playing.

One summer they built a house in the field. A house out of branches and cardboard, against the backdrop of a big gray fieldstone.

They built their house over days and weeks. They put all their little hearts into it. They took cookies and juice from home. They set up a tile as a table, and there they ate their lunch, proud and happy.

In the evening, at home, my son dragged us to our terrace to admire his day’s work (as if we had not been watching him throughout the day).

He explained what they had accomplished so far. What wood plank he had dragged from where. What flowers they had »found« to decorate their house.

They were happy. He was happy. We were happy.

One day two city workers came and tore their house down. They gathered the table and the flowers and all the decorations into a garbage bag, they actually swept the dirt field »clean« and loaded all the boards and branches onto a small truck, and that was that.

(The last time Leo remembered his house-in-the-field was yesterday.)