Or, How We Mourn the Little Stores That Knew Us Best
There used to be a corner store.
It had everything.
Medications. First aid supplies.
Toothpaste, tampons, and shampoo.
That very specific kind of knee brace you only realize you need at 7:00 PM on a Tuesday.
It was my store. Our store. The neighborhood store.
Rite Aid.
I picked up my prescriptions there for years.
The pharmacy techs knew my name.
So did the pharmacists.
It wasn’t just a chain—it was part of the neighborhood. A blue-lit constant.
The kind of place with a well-worn path from my little community straight to its automatic doors.
Literally right next door.
There is a path.
Because that’s how close it was.
Because that’s how essential it was.
It was more than a pharmacy.
It was a lifeline—for disabled neighbors picking up medical supplies, for elderly folks walking over for vitamins, tissues, and Tylenol.
It had snacks. It had Gatorade. It had pet food for when you were out and payday was still two days away.
It had your emergency deodorant. Your last-minute birthday card.
Your gummy candy and your 3 AM skincare run.
It had you covered.
Until one day, it didn’t.
I knew it was coming.
My little packet of Haribo gummies, once $1.25, had somehow crept up to almost $6.
Prices on basic items ballooned. The shelves got weirder.
Candy and soda were suddenly luxury goods.
And I remember saying aloud, probably to myself, probably to the universe:
“If they keep this up, the store’s not going to make it.”
And it didn’t.
It closed. Quietly.
Without ceremony.
And now there’s just an empty storefront where something steady used to be.
A fluorescent memory.
A ghost with automatic doors that no longer open.
Rite Aid came to Gettysburg in 1975.
Maybe not at that exact location.
But long enough ago that some of us have never known a version of this town without it.
For decades, it’s just been there. A steady, modest presence.
Not flashy. Not perfect.
But real. And reliable.
It was the kind of place you didn’t think to appreciate—until it was gone.
This is a lament.
For Aisle Seven and its eternal selection of hair dye and discount loofahs.
For the awkward seasonal aisle full of half-priced candy hearts in March.
For the knowing nod from the pharmacy tech when you came in, yet again, for the same refill.
For the quiet grace of a store that tried to be everything at once, and often was.
The neighborhood feels a little more vulnerable without it.
A little less convenient.
A little less known.
And so I light this metaphorical candle, and I say:
Farewell, corner store.
You were small, but mighty.
And you will be missed.
Photo Credit: (2025). [A photo outside the Rite-Aid building in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania] [Photograph]. Loopnet.com. https://www.loopnet.com/Listing/231-West-St-Gettysburg-PA/36648652/
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