I don’t miss things here until they are gone, the missing
piece of a puzzle, a vacant lot where a building had stood, and for the life of
me, I can’t recall what color it was, or shape, how many stories and if it had
stores at its bottom or not, what got sold, or when they spread paper over its
windows, the way the dead get pennies over their eyes.
Where do the ghosts go when a building expires? Who is left
to mourn it, recall the old man chopping meat behind the counter, or filling a
prescription, or stretching worn cloth, and how does the city change when these
place do, this perpetual erasure and resurrection, and then death again?
Who mourns for what cannot be remembered?
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