As I reached for the old brass door handle, worn with time and use, thousands of hands opening the same door over the last hundred years, I was over come with a sense of our place in history and future wound together ad one.
As we stand now is as our ancestors stood before us. We all have our place in the story that time tells.
The old folks tell of businesses past, once thriving and new, now empty husks of buildings, windows blanks eyes staring into a time where they no longer fit. Their proprietors once active members of the community, helping those in need the best they are able, watching helplessly as the town died around them. We listen to them talk, trying to grasp the impossibility of what they say.
Now we stand at the entrance of one of the last business in town. Of course the required bar stays busy down the street.
The couple who run it are growing old. So is the building. Though its tiled tin ceiling is tall and unblemished by the ugly dropped ceilings that have defiled so many grand structures and in the back the old hand crank elevator stands, a work of art in its utility and simplicity, the roof shows stains from leaks and the walls are cracked. Like on the owners, age is starting to wear hard.
How long will it be before the doors close here too? How long before a for sale sign falls to the floor, dreams of new owners long forgotten as windows break and the ceiling gives in.
We will be telling our grandchildren stories of a time when we used to shop there. They wont be able to believe that we can remember back to a time when that old ghost town still had stores.