He grabs the hammer from his brother's truck, peels away a green shingle from the house where he grew up. It's land our ancestors farmed for four generations, land we all know deep in our souls, land about to be sold. They left it to us, their legacy. A legacy worth enough to change the way we live. I wonder, did they know we would sell it? That their seed, their children, would scatter far and wide, would become accountants and professors and salesmen and scientists?
The buildings still stand, testaments to time passing, 100 years of wind peeling paint. Someone wielded hammer to wood, dovetailed joints and engineered roof lines. Someone painted it red. I wonder if it will be razed for tillable farmland. It aches, this wonderment.
|Linked to Lisa-Jo's prompt on "Ache"|