Then.

If you followed the hidden trail next to the beach you would find the derelict steel mill: young alder rose beside brick chimneys, an old maple had taken root inside the concrete walls—we would lie on its mossy branches and read or sleep—crumbling concrete surrounded a wicked ruin of bad graffiti and stubborn vines.

The waves nearby came through the trees in a diluted hiss echoing around the walls in airy pulses—you could forget and think it only the wind.

Now.

A bulldozed ramp of earth carves through the trees to a leveled field. Freshly landscaped grass grows in mowed paths. Bits of ruin poke out of the soil—faded spray paint mimics cartoon figures: dilapidated monuments without honor—nothing worth remembering.