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In “The Last Stop at Vincet Farm,” the narrator’s quiet journey to purchase a simple rotisserie chicken unfolds into a richly layered meditation on memory, loss, and the enduring presence of the past in the natural world. Through subtle imagery and a deliberately reflective tone, the piece weaves together personal history and ecological continuity, ultimately offering a profound commentary on how place can shape—and be shaped by—human experience.

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“The Last Stop at Vincet Farm”

By Harry Arabian

At the end of a long day—the kind that wears you out in a way only real work can—I decided to surprise my wife. Nothing fancy. Just something honest and warm: a farm-fresh rotisserie chicken from Vincet Farm in Waltham.
It had been years since I last set foot there, but the memory stuck like good soil under fingernails. I still remembered picking the freshest corn I had ever tasted—so sweet, so alive it felt like biting into summer.

The clock read just past six. The farm store closed at seven. I took the back roads, winding past stone walls and maples that had stood longer than any of us. Worst case, I figured, they would be sold out. Best case—I would walk through the door, grab dinner, and bring a little nostalgia home.

I pulled into the gravel lot twenty minutes before closing. Something felt … off. The lights inside were dim, casting long shadows across empty shelves. Still, I shrugged. It is a farm store, I told myself. Their day starts with the rooster’s call. Probably just winding down.

But then I saw the banner:
“Future Home of Bentley College Athletic Complex.”

Confused, I walked closer. Taped to the wooden door was a handwritten sign:
“After three generations, we have decided to close Vincet Farm. Thank you for supporting our farm.”

I stood there, absorbing it. No chicken. No corn. Just a quiet ache and the hum of a closing chapter. I lingered longer than I needed to, letting the memories hang in the cool air. Then I turned back to the car and drove home empty-handed, holding a silence I did not quite know how to explain.

That was thirty years ago. Life has changed—as it always does. We moved out west. The kids grew up. I built a career, lost a few old habits, and picked up some new ones. But every so often, some smell or breeze would stir a faint image of that April evening—of old wooden beams, shelves of apples, and a vanished farm.

I returned to Waltham for a sustainability conference at Bentley University. After a long day of presentations and recycled coffee, I needed air. The autumn light was turning golden, the kind of light that makes even asphalt glow.

I wandered around the back of the conference center, admiring the fire-orange trees and the cool hush of early evening. That is when I saw it—the sleek, modern structure labeled “Athletic Complex.”
Curious, I walked toward it. Near the entrance stood a modest stone and bronze plaque. 

It read:
“In honor of the Vincet Family, who nourished this community for three generations. 

On this land stood Vincet Farm—an enduring symbol of labor, love, and roots.”

The memory hit me in full: the hurried drive, the fading light, the sign on the door. I could almost hear the gravel crunching beneath my feet again.

Then—something new. A sound I did not expect: a gentle, bubbling creek. I turned and followed the sound until I saw it, winding quietly just past the lawn—clear water running over stones, catching the light like silver threads.

“I do not remember this creek,” I murmured. “Not part of the original Vincet Farm...”

Just then, an older man pushing a landscaping cart appeared behind me. Groundskeeper, maybe. His voice was kind, worn by time and weather.
“We discovered that creek while working on the complex,” he said, without prompt. “It was buried for years. Turns out, it was the life source of the farm. All the rain and snowmelt from the hills drained through here. Fed the fields. Kept everything growing.”

I nodded slowly while staring at the stream. The man tipped his cap and walked off, leaving me alone with the sound of water and memory.

Funny, I thought. The farm is gone. The buildings are gone. But the source—the thing that fed it all—still runs quietly beneath it all.

I stood there a few more minutes, then turned back to the path. I did not get the chicken that night. But all these years later, I found something else. A reminder that even when things disappear, their roots can still whisper through the land.