“Did you hear?” Jack called from the living room.
“Hear what?” I asked, perched against the kitchen island.
“They’re tearing down the old hospital.”
I heard the newspaper crumple as he folded it, his mug hitting the coffee table.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Weren’t you born there?”
My gaze drifted out the window where the snow was falling, collecting on the tree outside our house. “I was.”
“We should check it out.” Jack made his way into the kitchen. “You know, when they rip it down.”
I was suddenly very aware of my impermanence. I couldn’t help but acknowledge the symbolism attached to the destruction of my birthplace.
“I don’t think so.” I moved to the living room, picking up the newspaper to find the article. My eyes were met with a photograph of the hospital: tall and majestic, in its prime.
Jack was standing behind me. “What’s wrong? I thought you loved destruction.”
“Yeah.” I dropped the paper onto the oxblood sofa. “Not of the self.”
His eyes darted to the cigarette-burn scar on my forearm. “That’s not what I heard.”
“Fuck you, Jack.”
“Come on, I’m just joking,” he scoffed. “What happened to your sense of humour?”
“I guess it died with our baby.”