This was an exercise for a non-fiction writing class where we were required to write - as descriptively as possible - the destruction of a place within 20 minutes. As a non-fiction writing class, all writing needed to tell the truth and tell it well.

Just a 30-minute drive from where I was born was my grandmother's house - 21 Yorkdale Cresent. In Toronto, a city where many buildings have a long and rich history, that is the building that I loved the most. It is where I spent the first three years of my life before my little sister was born, and we moved 2 hours north to get away from the busy streets. And even though I can’t remember much of my childhood, I remember that house very fondly.

What was once a little sapling my grandmother planted soon after moving in was now a large oak tree that sat comfortably on the front lawn. 

The smell of whatever my grandmother was making would fill up my senses as soon as I stepped through the door. 

The sound of the radio danced through the air, mostly to help fill the now quiet halls. 

I would normally find Grandma in her office, a room towards the back of the house that looked over the backyard so she could watch me and my sister play while she worked. After a while, it changed into a makeshift bedroom as it became too difficult for her to make it up the stairs.

Even so, the house always had a welcome feel, but in 2015, that all changed. 

What was once a bustling family home had finally lost its last member when my grandmother passed away in the hospital, with me, my mom, and my sister at her side. 

We returned to the house that night. It smelled of her perfume, sweet yet bitter all at once. The radio had stayed deafeningly quiet. Even the summer-season oak tree looked like it was wilting, like it could feel the pain in our hearts. We all walked to our bedrooms, but my mom slept in her mother's room that night. And soon, sobbing would familiarize itself with the house. 

The legal process afterwards was awful, and my uncle found a way to void her will, causing my mother to have to fight for the properties we used to call home. The battle was not easy; they eventually sold the property to a developer.

I wasn’t there for the house's final moments, but I was told that a giant bulldozer had carved away the last piece that my mother had of her childhood and her first memories of her first child's toddler years. 

After some time had passed, we went to drive by the new house. A modern, cold, grey-brick building stood where my home once was. Either by luck or by a cruel twist of fate, there was an open house. My mom wanted to go in. 

The house was nothing like what it once was. It was frigid and stern. It felt like a museum, not a place for kids and loved ones. I didn’t know how to feel. It was nice - as I hoped it would be for 3 million dollars - but it wasn't home. After seeing what was once my treehouse hideout turned into an outdoor shed, I slowly came to the realization that I would never see my beloved grandmother again. Her warm house and equally warm hugs were no longer a safe place for me to retreat to. 

That day, the world felt much more empty.