Where I’m From – Homemade Ice cream
I spy a tattered man on the corner holding up a sign that reads, “WILL WORK FOR FOOD”.
I spy closed down and abandoned buildings that just couldn’t survive the recession.
In the distance only a memory of the GM building is left along with the scraps, each representing a memory.
I spy a young generation that just seems to have lost their way.
The smell of sewage from that darn river—that doesn’t deserve the name “Grand”.
I feel the coldness, the emptiness of this rustbelt town that once was.
Shh! Everyone quiet down, the local news is on—“another young soul is lost due to gun violence” the TV whispers.
The taste of the home made ice cream my grandmother makes places a pause button on reality and suddenly—everything wrong becomes right.
I recall the crowded hallways in high school where the kids only desire to learn, is about who’s pregnant now and who’s going to fight whom.
Gossip and drama fills the air like the stench of that “grand” old river and the younger generation are the flies drawn to that stench.
Many people want to leave—they’re tired of the rancid smell. It’s over powering—over bearing. But it pulls you in—few are lucky enough to