An old country store stands silouetted in
the sky at dusk.
A red cast iron hand pump stands alone
in a field nearby.
The 76 sign glows orange in the dark night.
But that is not my story.
My story is the dry wooden planks
crackling and popping,
As the flames lick up their sides.
Black smoke billows out the front door
And my father and uncle emerge
carrying one solitary momento...