What the Sign Said

Someone tagged me in a photo —

the hardware store on Route 9,

or maybe 11, I could never keep them straight —

is coming down.

The H and the A are still clear

in the photograph,

the rest of the sign already rubble,

and 47 people hit the crying face

and I don't know any of them anymore.

I remember the screen door.

The sound it made — a slap,

then a rattle, then nothing.

The smell inside, which was probably

sawdust and something chemical,

but which I have only ever called

the smell inside.

I don't know if I remember

or if the photograph

handed me something to remember

and I took it without checking.

The A is still clear.

The rest of the word is in a pile

on the ground and somebody is standing next to it

with a phone,

and I am eleven years away

having never gone back,

which is also a choice,

I think.