17th st. anomaly, finally gone.

Nothing's left of that tiny house that stood in the back of this long lot. The small red brick one- story that's been empty since I moved to this neighborhood, its long front yard shoulder high with mugwort, has been completely erased. My daughter used to dream of claiming the tiny uninviting building as a clubhouse. Maybe because of the the rarity of the depth and wildness of the yard the building seemed to be the kind of place that offered entry into a world where kids could claim autonomy.