Old buildings get to me. They leave me feeling empty, longing to know what they used to be. Who they represented. What kind of people once walked up the stairs into the building.
Were they people of status? With flowers in their hats and cufflinks on their sleeves? Did they pass by pennies on the sidewalks were stiff noses pointed to the heavens or were they joyous at the thought of two coins touching each other in their frayed pockets their wives had just sown up for the tenth time.
Did they have any children roam through the halls? With their snot pouring out of their noses like fountains and their muddy, painted, life-stained hands running around screaming and laughing while playing house. Or were there elderly people, those whose hair had turned white and gray through the numerous years and experiences life had spit at them.
What was this place?
My curiosity beckons me closer, so close that my nose is almost touching the brick door frame. When was the last time these bricks have been touched by the human hand? What critters have taken up residence in the property? How long has it been since a light chased the darkness away?
What was this place?
My heart begins to beat faster as I run my fingers through the mortar and the bricks, which crumble at the touch. Sunshine dances on the shattered windows, where it appears stones have hit their target long ago.
The chrome mail slot looks as though it is brand new, the weather has not touched it’s shine. The number 310 beckons me in as I search even the sidewalk below for answers.
Answers that go unanswered.
I look up to the roof, longing to find a way to climb on top and look down in the building. If I could fly, nothing could stop me.
The grass has turned into a jungle of weeds, wildflowers and gravel. Were groundkeepers employed here? Did they give their lives to making this building, and the landscape, shine? Or did the tenant not care?
It seems I will never know.
Old buildings get to me. They leave me feeling empty, longing to know what they used to be.
