I suppose it has made me a criminal - this numeral thefting - this stealing of a tangible black and white memory, rent from the dismantled flower-boxes that once graced 212 Queen Street South. I suppose I should feel guilty - that remorse should cause me to hung-headed hand it back. I suppose I should be all apology and oh-so-sorry and begging forgiveness for this address robbing.
But I am not.
It will always be a part of me and now the
Chicken House stands as a memorial to that first place we stamped our name upon. A dusty door and whispered nodding to what once was and is no more but for the shiny moments that are tattooed upon our Rusnak hearts.
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