By Taileen Wilson

The old store on the corner forever in our memories
We will always hear the squeaking from the Shell sign hanging for years by
one chain.
Forbearing letters of hell taunting
and daring us to cross to the other side.
The “S” long ago shot off by
pre-teen youth setting the stage for those who dare to enter.
A daily ritual to take a deep
breath and briskly walk through the threshold.
An old musty smell enveloped me and
transformed me into the world inside.
Dark and dusty shelves lined the
walls with narrow aisles zigzagging around in a maze of confusion.
The feel of shelves around me like
a shroud, taking over, still with me today
Old wooden floor worn so deeply in
the middle, my ankles twisted with every step.
Wooden floor shiny from years of
spills and mud-covered boots.
That store invaded my mind, took
all thoughts of why I was there.

Every day I would think why was I
here? What do I need? I would look on the shelves.
Behind every jar was a jar from
years ago and behind that was one from years before that.
I, lost in decades past, reading
old labels – living, feeling, breathing the past
Someone would walk by and pull me
back to here and now.
I would startle, sweat, feeling
that I had been caught slipping into the vortex.
Never admitting to anyone that you
had fallen in.
To admit to the vortex was to
commit to the Shell sign.
Albert’s motto was “If he didn’t
have it, you didn’t need it.”
Shell store is gone now. All that remains is the
old fuel pump, weeds grown up around it.
Looking at the empty lot as I drive
by, my hair still stands on end.
Looking back, I wonder if Albert
ever had anything we really needed.