I watched rainwater pour through gutters on the old house out into the street. Sticks and leaves washed on pavement.

Red bricks needed tuckpointing. Bits and pieces broken. Sharp edges smoothed out over time. Stones split in half.

Windows with cracks in them. Wooden frames splintered. Overgrown weeds and tall, fat shrubs covered the front porch.  A sign on the front door stated CONDEMNED.

This is where he lived. This was my father’s house. He lived there by himself. Left the family years before his death. Mom just let him go.

He doesn’t want to be here, she said on the phone. He might as well leave. Him and his whiskey, along with those depressing Chet Baker records. I’ve had enough, mom said to my aunt. I’ve had enough.

It took me forever to find this old house. I was not shocked to see the disrepair it was in. An old broken down house. I wonder if it was ever a home.