#writephoto. Derelict

This is such a a poignant, touching story, inspiring some of my own memories. Perhaps the reader will also be inspired to write his/her own brief memoir. Reblogged from https://bobfairfield.org

When the pen takes control.


Breathless, as much due to excitement as the very steep narrow path I had just climbed, I rounded the bend not knowing what I expected to find. It was still there, though. I could vividly remember the day that the old thatched roof was removed and replaced with red tiles. A bit of the community died with it’s removal. Now I saw that even the shiny tiles had not survived the intervening years. A sorry sight but one that still gave me joy. Memories came flooding back as I surveyed what were now the ruins of the old Chapel. Twice a day on Sundays, my father, mother, and my four brothers and sisters had walked the steep path up from the village to join with the other families in worship and the acapella singing of praises to the Lord. The congregation consisted of a stern-looking preacher in black  and only…

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