Bricks

The marrow of Mother Earth baked into bone

I pick up bricks. Remains of what was once civilized. Forgotten. Left to the rain and sun. Left to the ivy, trumpet vine, kudzu, and smilax. Abandoned. Orphaned. Jettisoned ballast.

Members of a collection.

Among my stack ... Bricks from Fort Sumter, from the poet’s home, from where Gone With the Wind premiered, Badwell Plantation, the old Confederate printing plant, the legendary brick mason’s home, from drowned towns, a biblical Huguenot brick, relic from a tenant home’s chimney, engraved bricks. Bricks along the dripline. Bricks velvet with moss. Stacked bricks. From the old Willington Academy site. A corner stone.

Bricks in lieu of granite or marble, plastered over but not all.

Bricks will be all that’s left when man is long gone. The marrow of Mother Earth baked into bone. Does not rust. Does not decay. Does not die.

The next time you come across a forgotten brick pick it up. Make it useful again.

Or ...

Mix clay, sand, and water. Shape in molds. Leave your thumbprint in the brick. A memorial to you. Dry for several days. Fire in a kiln at high 2,000°F.

Go Adobe. Sun dry mud bricks. Build something. A brick outhouse. A tombstone. Your bricks will outlast you. Your memorial to you.

The mark of a legend.

Along Georgia Hwy 79, the road where the bandits raided the Confederate gold train.

From Badwell Plantation, last stand of the Huguenots.

Bricks of what was Lisbon, Georgia, now beneath the waters of Clarks Hill Lake.