Anna's Blog Post

I’ve grown as the city has grown. I’ve stood here and watched as the cobblestone streets were repaved with asphalt. As the buildings went from quaint cottages to imposing office buildings. As the union jack was taken down and replaced with stars and stripes. I stand behind the great, brick hall, almost as tall as its green, glass clock.  My branches span from the edge of the park to just over the roofline of the hall. Like the city, the building is always changing, constantly in flux. A noble tower was built after years of suggestions and fundraising from neighbors. A lighting rod was installed after a terrible storm. A strong, unassuming barrier was added after the twin towers fell in New York. The one thing that was constant was the hordes of people going in and out of the proud, red brick building. 

At the beginning, there were stout, argumentative men in tricornered hats and pointed buckle shoes, rushing to the building, ready to discuss politics. There were once grown men, hands shackled behind their backs, forced into the building to have their freedom questioned. Many years later came the busloads of restless, sweaty teens in matching neon shirts and lanyards. They dragged their feet as they filed past me into the hallowed hall, operating on the promise of ice cream. Sometimes people stood close to the building. They preached their beliefs, marched in circles with signs, or stood there, admiring the building. Young couples, shouldering backpacks with tiny flags from around the world perched on the side, came to see the hall. Large families, with even larger cameras, came to ogle the textbook-perfect hall. Even harried local parents would pause in front of the hall, letting go of their child’s hand in order to point out the building, and say, to their children’s confusion,“That’s where the country was born.” The people flowed in and out, to and from the brick hall. They were constantly drawn to the building…until they weren’t.

It was in early spring, when my branches began to grow heavy with soft, green threads of flowers and pollen, when the people stopped coming. No more groups of school children, swaddled in mittens and coats. No more rushed, giddy families. The hall remained empty that cold March day. It remained empty the next day. And the next. There were no lines. There were no crowds. There were no people. Days stretched into weeks, and still no one went in. 

My branches grew bright, new shoots and delicate, waxy leaves. The sun stayed in the sky longer. A few brave locals ventured into the park, uneasy parents clenching their children’s hands, decrepit neighbors walking tiny dogs, and nervous runners darting through. But no one went in. During the day, the building remained quiet, desolate. At night, the dark, empty building was almost eerie, with the surrounding lights casting an ominous shadow behind it. The clock at the top of the tower remained dark and blank, a fairytale heroine stuck in a never-ending slumber. As March spilled into April, I began to doubt whether the hall would return to its bustling, crowded self. Then one rainy, Philadelphia evening, a familiar man walked up to the building. Despite the muggy drizzle, the man sported a quiet, all knowing smile. As he opened the hall’s back door, he lowered his wide, ranger’s hat to the chest of his freshly pressed shirt, and ducked in. As he stepped through the doorway, I swear he nodded at me. A few minutes later, the lights inside were flipped on, emitting a soft, welcoming glow. Next the windows on the second floor lit up. And finally the clock, level with my branches, flickered awake, letting off a strong, green glow. The door in the main part of the building creaked open, and the man emerged. He surveyed the park with a smile, and then walked away into the rain.