My Sycamore.

This Summer they began tearing down Sycamore, at least that's what it has felt like to my overly sensitive heart.  What I mean by this is they are tearing down my Sycamore, the backdrop of my childhood.  My fathers' Sycamore is long gone, and my grandmothers' was torn down before even that.  Around eight years …

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 …