85 Brendon Hill Rd. is not a place for me anymore. It is a memory. The sweet, ageless smell of my grandfather's perfume, the ding of the alarm as the back door opens, the voices of relatives sitting around the kitchen counter eating olives and sipping on "rosso", the Cadillac sitting like a trapped giant in the tiny garage, my grandmother's sculptures decorating the back yard, the living room crowded with furniture, the scary and exciting basement. The traces of over 50 years of life of three generations still linger in what remains, briefly, of this place.
A place I always dreamt of going to and never really belonged to is now filled with loss, emptied, sold and disappears forever. This is my last look at a place that, as portrayed, is no longer what gave me a childhood of dreams and expectations. It is instead an empty box that I fill with symbols, memories and images.