To listen to the accompanying audio story, click here. To read the accompanying article, click here.
“Memories Round the Block” follows the slow unraveling of a neighborhood as time, progress, and gentrification strip away its color and life. The story begins with laughter and play, but each photo and stanza moves closer to silence — homes abandoned, stores shuttered, people gone. The photographs are intentionally dim and muted, mirroring how memory fades and how the neighborhood’s spirit dulls under change. Each “Tick Tock” marks the passage of time and the quiet loss of community. This gallery is not about beautifying decay, but revealing the cost of progress — how memories linger even when the people and places are gone.
Tick Tock. The kids played from sunup to sundown, sneakers scraping against the pavement, sweat biting into their eyes, language flooding the block. Momma screamed from the door, “Don’t be outside too long.”
Tick Tock. There was a time when the kids were round the block, running with the ball till one made it to the white line — their touchdown. Dribbling the ball, swerving from the enemy, ice cream melting in their hands now replaced by suitcases. The kids don’t play no more, ‘cause the concrete’s been replaced by marbled floors.
That’s how the days used to go.
.
Tick Tock. The swings are still there, paint fading, seats empty. The court stays quiet after rain. Somewhere, Momma’s voice still carries through the air — soft, distant, telling the kids not to stay out too long.
Tick Tock. The bottle remains — abandoned, like the home they left. Janice never said the house was part of the deal. Shards of glass remain, storing the memory of what once was.
Tick Tock. The swings are still there, paint fading, seats empty. The court stays quiet after rain. Somewhere, Momma’s voice still carries through the air — soft, distant, telling the kids not to stay out too long.
Tick Tock. What once was private became public. No need for gates — anyone could waltz in. The house, piled with trash, was simply empty.
Tick Tock. What once was private became public. No need for gates — anyone could waltz in. The house, piled with trash, was simply empty.
Tick Tock. Momma’s got a rusted car but can’t afford the bills. Everything’s gone up.
Tick Tock. Momma’s got a rusted car but can’t afford the bills. Everything’s gone up.
Tick Tock. It started with the people. Then the houses. Now the stores. Soon there won’t be anything left at all.
Tick Tock. Everyone’s gone. The announcement came — the neighborhood’s future: death, to make room for riches.
Tick Tock. No deals for Momma. He came back when she couldn’t afford the rent. She packed what she could and left for a cheaper place.
Tick Tock. You won’t find children round the block. No boys playing ball. No girl waiting, bored. No Momma on the porch. You’ll find an overpriced coffee shop,
and tall buildings higher than what you get paid.
Tick Tock. The briefcase man called it magic — a new innovation, something to draw the tourists in. And Momma? She’s still looking for a home. At least, they paid her off.
