Humboldt Public School was finally torn down this past weekend, after years of what some call neglect and what others call "getting old."
Some think the demolition was long overdue; others think that's a travesty and that the century-old building should have been preserved.
Whatever your opinion on the matter, one thing is a constant between all of us: loss is the realest part of life.
We all go through it, losing something, or someone, beloved to us. Having to bid a final farewell to a cherished part of our life, seeing your old school reduced to a massive pile of rubble and broken brick is gut-wrenching and for many, is as hard to take as saying goodbye to an old friend.
We live for nostalgia, for those moments when you bump into someone you knew from way-back-when, or come across an old photograph of your senior prom; we love reminiscing with people about high school, about care-free times, silly times, remember-when-this-happened times.
Those times when the perils and tribulations of the real world wasn't even on our radar; we lived to be mad and impulsive and spontaneous and to heck with rules and deadlines and punching in from 9-5, the world was our oyster and what better way to spend it than for eight hours in the day surrounded by our closest friends.
That's why the school we went to growing up will always reserve a special place in our heart's keepsake box; it's the first place where we got away from home and our parents and were made to feel independent because of it. We learned and we laughed; we passed tests and failed some; we took part in unifying, collaborative efforts like plays and projects and also one-man shows that tested our own self-worth like exams.
It anchors down what will define us for decades to come, as a tiny sample of what would be waiting for us on the other side when we finally walked across the stage at graduation and proudly accepted our diploma.
So bidding goodbye to your old school isn't just taking in a deep sigh when that wrecking ball hits the brick; it's understanding that that chapter of your life is really, truly, gone.
Not everything can be preserved, except in your memory; in fact, our existence and understanding of our life is our memory of it.
When I was 7 years old, the old wooden playground near my house was torn down in favour of a modern structure.
I was crushed and I remember vividly telling my mom how much I'd miss the old playground as she was tucking me into bed one night.
"But you'll always have your memories of it," she said gently. "So just close your eyes and you can be there again."
I was instantly satisfied with that explanation and felt much better about my sense of loss and as simple as those words seem, they've come to help me in more recent years when I'd be confronted with something I loved being torn out of my life.
The old Swiss Chalet we used to go to all the time growing up was turned into some Chinese buffet a couple of years ago; my favourite video store turned into a bakery, then a yoga studio, then some over-priced women's boutique and finally an M&M Meat Shops.
My father, my best friend, rock, confidante and all who I adore and aspire to be, died suddenly of a heart attack two years ago.
Debilitating grief doesn't even come close to describing the agony I felt over his death.
But when I think about him, he's right there. Not gone, just waiting for me to file through the rolodex of my mind and bring up his card; it's a pretty worn-out card by now, the edges softened and dog-eared, the writing of 'Dad' faded.
I pull it up several times a day.
Just like many will with Humboldt Public School and they'll soon find that, like my dad and the old Swiss Chalet and the rickety wooden playground near my house, its existence is still there in your memory of it.
"You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, but the scent of the roses will hang around it still."
- Thomas Moore
CM
