Tales From an Upstate New York Building

She never thought it would come to this.

Pieces.

Literally.

Her life was in pieces.

She knew things hadn’t been good in Upstate New York for a while. Decades, to be honest.

But this…

She still remembered the joy of going up like it was yesterday.

Oh, the promise.

The neighborhood was humming.

The whole city, in fact.

People were coming in from all over.

And she got to see them all.

First the light-skinned ones who talked funny.

Then the darker ones.

They didn’t eat lunch together.

But they worked together.

And man did they work.

They were pumping out thousands of those things a day.

The energy.

And the voices—they were loud.

Who could forget?

When it seemed to get a little quieter, she thought it was just her imagination.

Then a little quieter still.

Her imagination again.

But one day, she knew it was real.

The dark-skinned ones had all but disappeared.

The others still plugged away.

But the energy was gone.

Metaphorically, at first. Then just gone.

Completely.

Those were the worst days.

The silence was deafening.

But then it was just life.

She would hear a few voices from time to time.

They seemed hopeful.

They would use those fancy words.

Preservation.

Repurpose.

Mixed-use.

The promise was back.

But it wasn’t.

She would eventually hear more voices.

But these ones were different.

Desperate.

They would leave needles.

She could deal with that.

The bodies though…

Some never woke up.

They’d be dragged away, only to reappear.

And then the voices changed again.

Not loud. Not hopeful. Not desperate.

Just done.

A factory was fine.

Silence was too.

Even a junkie manor would do. You could just look the other way.

But a morgue?

No.

That’s when she knew her days were numbered.

Time for a last few pictures.

Then the pieces.

…

They say hope springs eternal.

Maybe in China.

Or Mexico.

Or even Tennessee.

But here, nothing is eternal.

Except the pieces.

Those never go away.