I went back.

“It’s gone.”

Not my old worksite, but the building next door to my old place of business. The one they were in the process of demolishing as we finished our last days. Curiosity got the better of me on Saturday, and I drove a friend and I up the sloping driveway one more time, only to find a dumpster and a solitary bulldozer.

The building was gone. The beautiful plants hacked at and ran over, without a care. The gorgeous Japanese Maple shredded down to the stump. The only trace left was a crumbling parking lot, a few cement blocks that once held a shape of an old fire pit, and the old rusty gate with the “No Parking” sign still hanging on for dear life.

And I really was only there for the building next door. I told myself I didn’t care about my old work building. Without us, it’s just cinderblocks and ugly paint. I didn’t want to know if it was empty or the current process.

But I drove to the back anyway. Habit. Or so I say. And it looked like the thieves that tried (and accomplished twice!) to steal the catalytic converter from the work van realized the ac units might have something of use. And intrigued, I wandered over.

I took a shot, then we got back in my car, and started down the driveway.

Oh, but I was too curious. I made it to the second lot, and turned back to look through the windows.

I felt a little like I was trespassing. What an odd feeling after this being my veritable second home for the past sixteen years. Putting my eye to the camera, I felt nothing. I just wanted to document.

Just wanted one more photo to remember. Or maybe two.

So it didn’t make sense why I ran straight to the window, cupping my hands around my eyes to peer in. I knew it would be empty.

What I didn’t expect was for it to still look so much the same.

I didn’t expect to still the signage on the walls. I didn’t expect to see the arrows still pointing to one of my sections.

I didn’t expect to see the natural light illuminating the place where I spent most of my mornings. A sun spotlight set up on my little sanctuary, if you will.

My camera lens smushed up against the glass, I tried to make out more.

I had to cup my hand around my lens and between the dirty window pane as I focused to try and avoid the reflection if I wasn’t straight on.

“Okay, I’m sorry, I’m done,” I said. Oh, wait. Two more.

The struggle of my want to document the history (and demise) of a place, and my mental health was like a tug of war in my heart. As I drove off, and took my familiar route down the backroad, after crossing the main street, I felt it wash over me. A feeling like getting your heart broken from someone you never really loved or even wanted.

I said to my friend, “I kind of feel awful now. Residual grossness.” And she simply said, “I’m just glad it took what it did to get you out of there. It’s only been a month, and I can already tell the difference in you.”

Me too, friend.