Slowly like a disease it happened. 
The escalator went first, 
out of service the sign read.

Everything you need 
Bedding, floor two. 
Cosmetics, ground floor. 
Appliances, third floor.  

Sanitary white tile floors 
with a permanent layer of dirt, 
sticky at my feet.

Mannequins I bump into, 
apologizing to the person 
I thought they would be.

Commissions to be made, 
perfume samples sprayed in my face. 
Children who have been dragged along 
with promises of ice cream rewards. 

Mattress jumping and deal hunting, 
catalog circles of Christmas wishes. 
A maze of concrete and fluorescent wonderland,  
up and down escalators that now serve as stairs. 

A lost child’s name being blared 
over muffled a PA system. 
Hide and seek inside a rack of clothes
a mother’s momentary panic. 

The burnt out light bulbs in fitting rooms, 
physical reminders the end is near. 
Sizes out of stock, 
E-commerce they tell me to visit. 

We didn’t help when the place was on fire, 
everyone for themselves.
Running to the nearest competitor,
Hoping nostalgia alone would keep this place afloat.

Eaton and Hudson could not survive, 
the death is no surprise, 
discounts went further down 
along with the sign out front. 

Only an outline of a past logo is left in a carless parking lot, 
waiting for someone to come take its place, 
only to have the same fate.

– Emma Di Girolamo