Rusting Place

We get shy to take the time for what's tangible. From a youth when everything had to be experienced, somehow we come content with second-hand stories. For me, remnants always rise to the occasion. History doesn't have to hold any actual information to forge a connection, but many expect you to settle when names and dates are all on offer. How about tales with neither of those? Can't tell you whose car this was, or where it went, whether adventurous or ordinary journeys. I do know that its last ride was one heck of crash, when someone pushed it down from the now-defunct quarry up top. Now it's in a junkyard with a view of Fales River, couple neighbours for company. Last rusting place with the wonder if anyone who drove behind the wheel is still living. More of my questions are never answered than are, but I'm fine with knowing that maybe some stories are bound to end with me.

 

September 30, 2025

East Tremont, Nova Scotia

 

Year 18, Day 6533 of my daily journal.

 

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