At the end of Farish Street in Downtown Jackson, a small shotgun house sits empty, its previous owners having left long ago. Weeds spill onto the front porch, white paint peels from the wooden siding, the roof sags under the weight of time, and holes where windows used to be are ringed with the sooty evidence of a once devastating fire. The house, like many structures on its street, has been left to crumble.

Abandoned buildings are everywhere in the South, physical manifestations of decades of outmigration, economic disinvestment, and socioeconomic change. After some time, they just become part of the landscape; another collapsed roof here, broken down front door there, shattered storefront over there.

But for some reason, the house on Farish Street has stuck with me. It’s not because of its beauty or grandeur; there are more spectacularly derelict houses a few lots down. The house, which is now not much more than a shell, has persisted in my memory because, though I know nothing about its history, I can so easily imagine what it once was. The shouts of children in the yard, smells of the kitchen saturating the walls, creaks of chairs rocking away on the porch. Ventures started, risks taken, houses built, families raised, dreams lost, losses cut. A house becoming a home, then turning into one of many vacant, burned out buildings on Farish Street.