The house was bare; no furniture in it. Not a pan or a pot in the kitchen. The bed was gone in the bedroom. An old love seat had vanished. He looked around the place for clues. Paintings which were once on the walls disappeared and things like lamps, chandeliers replaced with hanging light bulbs. Cracks in the walls.

This is where he grew up. This is where the old man spent his childhood; outside on a swingset, sliding down a slide. They were gone too. Brown grass and dirt lay where the boy’s youth was spent. Dad used to push him on Sundays high into the sky. Mom would watch as she fried up chicken livers.

The old man walked outside to the driveway where the basketball hoop still stood, mounted to the green garage. Several nights he played imaginary games on that court. All by himself he pretended to be both teams, the coaches, and the television commentators. The floodlights shined down on him.

And now the house was going to be torn down. Condemned from further use. He was glad he saw it one last time. Times were better back then. The memories proved that. You can’t live an imaginary life forever.