I really love these two images of a construction site near our apartment, taken last weekend. The first one is Roger's, the second one, mine. I always want to see inside the sites, so it was a little thrilling when we came upon this one, with no plexiglass in its cut-out windows.
Every time I see a building being torn down, I think of that moment in You've Got Mail, where she talks about the city changing and her store closing:
People are always telling you that change is a good thing. But all they're really saying is that something you didn't want to happen at all has happened. My store is closing this week. I own a store, did I ever tell you that? It's a lovely store, and in a week it will be something really depressing, like a Baby Gap. Soon, it'll just be a memory. In fact, someone, some foolish person, will probably think it's a tribute to this city, the way it keeps changing on you, the way you can never count on it, or something. I know because that's the sort of thing I'm always saying. But the truth is I'm heartbroken. I feel as if a part of me has died, and my mother has died all over again, and no one can ever make it right.I still, somehow, feel a pang of sadness when I walk past the corner where my favorite deli used to be. Honestly, and it must be half a decade since. It wasn't that there would never be another good, warm grilled cheese or ham and swiss sandwich. It was just that it was there one day, and then it was gone, and I'll never know what happened to the very nice lady at the cash register who was, once, a person I saw more often than some of my closest friends. I've written about this sort of loss before, and so has Colson Whitehead, only better.