You Couldn’t Wait to Leave This Town
Concrete steps rise from pebbly cracked sidewalks, but go, absurdly, nowhere. Into the boards of a fence, or the sunless dirt beneath a low tree limb. An empty lot. A telephone pole. Eighty years ago, a raging summer fire leveled everything for miles, and when the town returned, it shifted—just a little—and left these oddities. Growing up, I barely noticed. They were part of the salty, wind-bent landscape, pointless. Who cared?
But time passes. Smoke clears. Now I see: they’re reminders, ways back. Someone lived here. And here. And here. The steps don’t go nowhere. They go home.
Photo Credit: moominsean
love it
Nice Jennifer. How many times have we seen those old reminders and not stopped to think about the stories behind them?
Just touching and lovely.
Simply beautiful.
This one is absolutely beautiful — and timely, as beautiful things tend to be.