Old Holmes in My New Life

As he strolls down an Historic District, - and admires the French and Colonial Architecture, the raised-high roof beams expertly cut, decorative gables and canopies from the 19th century he visits one and gazes from high window. He catches a glimpse of the past through the tree tops. “My ancestors built this French home.” He can feel the firm, solid beams set in place almost 200 years ago with oak trees when there were so many. He can almost imagine the original family looking through this glass at a pristine, tree-filled America with broad open expanses under an even broader, blue-blue sky.

As his gaze lowers from the tree tops to the streets below, he sees the waves of changes; red Solo cups blow with the wind in a loan and desolate wasteland of shoddy architecture; of homes come later; made for ease, idleness and urban decay jammed packed on top of themselves like rat’s nests. The streets littered with trash from shopping centers, the idle youth living off of snack machines and unrealistic expectations; furniture made to fall apart and thrown away after one time use. He sees the waves of migrations of heritages making their marks on America like the strata of the Earth’s plates. He sees the Anthropocene. This wave was here only to capitalize and self-indulge. And that one didn’t care at all. After all, - they are free. They are free scour the country side like locusts leaving trash in their wakes, searching for a Whale Fall or an honest, hardworking family’s fruits to shove an oyster knife into; suck out the meats until the giving tree is laid to waste.

Last updated August 03, 2023