I remember the day the Mill caught fire.

The smoke billowed in dark plumes, turning the blue August sky into evolving shades of orange and grey.

I recall the smell most of all - I checked my nose to see if it was bleeding.

The taste of metal choked the back of my throat.

It was 1999 - I was nine years old the day the Mill burned down.

The abandoned Fisherville Mill was an eyesore next to my grandparents' house, but my grandfather and I shared an odd fascination with it. He would take me for walks along
the fence line. He would talk about the days when the Mill was bustling with life. He would point to a window in the tall vacant building and say “that’s where your Dad used
to work”.

My Dad was tasked with building aluminum metal chairs - The kind with the colorful vinyl webbing. He still tells stories of those days working at Prest Wheel.

“We would work two people to a chair - I would pull the webbing across tight and the person on the other side would hold it steady. There were some girls that worked there
and everyday, I would cross my fingers that it would be a girl paired with me so that I could flirt with them.”

It’s stories like those, that have woven their way into my mind and over time, they start to become a part of me. As if they were my own, as if they were etched deep into my
bones, forever legible. It reminds me that my Dad, was once a child with his whole life ahead of him.

The day the Mill burned down, something in the town changed. Despite the elation of many - I felt like something was taken from me. This was a link to my dad, this was
a link to my grandfather, this was a link to my childhood - smoldering, totally severed.

The years shortly after, the ground where the building once stood proudly, became overgrown and forgotten. The fence now rusted, adorned with thick brush pressing
against every chain link like Mother Nature was attempting to break free. The land took on a new identity and with it, a new name - The Fisherville Mill Superfund Site.

Around the age of 13, I would walk the train tracks behind my Dad's apartment. The time I spent alone on those tracks were the time that I learned the most about myself.
I grew to love the natural world, despite the clear presence of human life around it. I would wander off, cutting my own trails through the woods - finding treasures hidden
in the soil that the flooded river would leave behind. I never took photographs - I took only a notebook. I would map out the paths I made, drawing landmarks along the way.

‘Go left at the washing machine next to the white oak, follow the line of small pines to the river’.

It didn’t take long to find my way to the Mill. On the backside, Fisherville Pond acted as a barrier, secluding the site safely from any intruders. The fence, however,
no longer carried the weight of a deterrent. It had mostly fallen into the murky water and the links remaining were ripped apart.

I would duck under it and crawl out on the other side. There was no way to tell where I was - the grass was so tall, it easily reached above my head. I pushed
through it - tripping over charred bricks, lost tools and giant pits in the ground that were lined in rusted metal. A small pool formed in them - I would drop my arm
low to the ground, bend my knees slightly and thrust my hand skyward - with a light flick of my wrist, I would let go of a rock and watch it fall into the depth of the
pool below and admire the shimmer of colors that would cascade from its splash landing.

Those days in the hot summer heat, standing on an overgrown hill of brush, were some of the most vivid feelings of total loss I had experienced in my life at that point.

My Grandfather was no longer there to hold my hand.

My childhood was fading in the sunset.

This is the place that it was tucked away - My memory to hold. My memory to protect.