A Pile of Bricks.

Things in a small town never change, until they do.  It’s not a slow transition, it’s an all at once kind of thing – an “upgrade”.  All I see is the ruble of my childhood, one of the few buildings that made up the Sycamore skyline gone and, a generation from now, forgotten.  They tore down my elementary school while I was still attending it, my high school before I even got there.  Now down goes the mill where I took one of my first award winning photographs and the salon where I got my first haircut.  I’m not a big fan of change; I think that’s a common thing among small town country folks, it’s why so many of us stay put.  My heart is far too sentimental to handle looking at a pile of bricks that were once something I loved.

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