The season for dismantling

Graduation, grief, and the tenderness of taking things apart

The lot behind my house has been a buzz of activity this week. They’re taking down the tennis court.

When we moved in, the only sign of the old court was chain link fence and metal rods, collapsed and folded, peeking out from behind dirt piles.

This week, a man with a backhoe nibbled one pole at a time, gently depositing them in a pile outside my office window.

The fence is rolled up now. The bones of the tennis court are horizontal.

It’s the season for dismantling.

My daughter graduates from boarding school this weekend. She’s already started taking her room apart; I brought home four bags and a laundry basket on Monday. I can picture the space: halfway packed, halfway unpacked, that in-between state. Prom tonight. Baccalaureate tomorrow. On Sunday, the whole class will stand in a circle together for the last time.

When I left my job, the dismantling happened slowly, too. A bag at a time. Eventually, one Saturday, I went in with some extra hands, took down the diplomas, carried out my granny’s toy box and the little Sarah chair. By the last day of school, I just had a few things left.

It happens everywhere this time of year. Kids carry home backpacks full of the work that’s been hanging on classroom walls. Houses nearby go up for sale. You pack up, you head home. Some people come back in September.

Dismantlings take all shapes and sizes. But I’d argue it always feels a little like a death.

The rooms that were assembled in September with so much hope, that held so much angst and midnight chitchat, are dismembered now. Furniture pulled away from the walls, revealing dust in the corners you’d never noticed. By Sunday, all that’s left will be the sheets on the beds and a bucket of toiletries. Then that, too, will be gone. Cleaned out, ready for next year’s seniors. Just like the lot behind me, leveled, waiting for a foundation.

You don’t expect to grieve a tennis court, but here I am.

🕊️

SAM