My mall is dead.
Brunswick Square Mall, a fixture on Route 18 in East Brunswick for more than 50 years — and a gleaming, bizarrely significant cornerstone of my suburban Jersey existence — closed for good this weekend.
Construction has already begun on its replacement: an open-air retail, recreation, and medical complex. Some of the stores are moving over, but the mall as generations of Central Jerseyans knew it officially shuttered Saturday.
The closure has left me bereft and reeling, humming Taylor Swift’s ”How Did it End?“ I stand upon the banks of the Raritan River, a black veil shrouding my tears as I forlornly toss rose petals into the churn, one for Waldenbooks, another for Bun ‘n’ Burger.
OK, fine, maybe I’m being dramatic. But a native East Brunswicker, I really am sad.
I now understand all the nostalgic social media posts from past years, when other New Jerseyans’ beloved malls were lost to the big redevelopment zone in the sky.
It’s no secret malls are dying a slow death. Shopping habits have changed. Everything’s online now. Malls in Livingston, Eatontown, Moorestown, and Voorhees are all being revamped or on their last legs, too.
Brunswick Square, one of the state’s oldest malls, has been sputtering for years, with familiar stores gradually disappearing, temporary replacements taking over, and empty units by the score. I watched a Radio Shack turn into a gym, Spencer’s Gifts become a pop-up bakery.
It’s a strange grief, almost silly. I know nostalgia is a dangerous drug. I know people can idealize the past. I know the new place could be cool, and add new jobs. I know there are many more important things in 2026 than the horror of a fallen shopping center. I’ve experienced real loss in life and will again.
But New Jersey is a state where, for better or worse, we cling to what we care about, no matter how ridiculous it may seem to the rest of the country. And malls are part of our distinct DNA, something we take much too seriously. Everyone has their mall.
I’m 42, a product of the ‘80s and ‘90s. And to those of us who grew up in East Brunswick and nearby, Brunswick Square was our cultural command post, our community center — even if it was objectively not the grandest mall around.
After all, it was only one story tall. It didn’t have a food court. Menlo Park and Woodbridge Center were larger and earned all the glory with their fancy playgrounds and carousels.
But at its height, our little mall was a memory-maker. My parents threw birthday parties for my brother Brian and me at York Steak House and Farrell’s ice cream parlor. We nabbed a slew of Starting Lineup sports figurines from KB Toys.
I bought my first CD at Camelot Music in August 1993: Billy Joel’s “River of Dreams.” Brian and I bought hundreds and hundreds more at that wonderful shop, where they displayed the Billboard charts just above the cassette singles. I felt like an extra in “High Fidelity,” ready to be screamed at by Jack Black.
If Camelot didn’t have a copy of the new Oasis record or “Good Will Hunting” on DVD, we’d simply stroll to other side of the mall to see if Sam Goody or Suncoast Video had them instead. We were middle-class royals, spoiled by the abundance.
I ate hundreds of times at the way-too-big Roy Rogers, which loomed beside McCrory’s five and dime — yes, a five and dime. I scarfed countless pretzels at Hot Sam’s, a place so good its demise a few decades ago still haunts and maddens me.
I worked my first few jobs at American Eagle, Aeropostale, Barnes & Noble, and Mega Movies.
It was a place to go on Friday nights. To bring dates, to hang with friends, to waste time, back when there was time to be wasted.
My wife, Lindsay, said for its small size, Brunswick Square had everything you needed in one place. Even if you knew the stores by heart, you could still be surprised by what you’d find. There was a thrill to in-person browsing that can’t be replicated by internet shopping, no matter the convenience. One of my first dates with Lindsay involved her helping me find a new pair of dress shoes at Macy’s. Can’t do that on Amazon.
As I still live in the area, Brunswick Square remained the center of the universe to the bitter end. I took each of my kids — Everly and Carter — just weeks after they were born and snapped photos of them in their strollers to commemorate their first trip to our mall.
Yes, I’m a little weird. Yes, I’m old. But I’ve lived long enough to know you shouldn’t forget the past while looking toward the future.
That’s how I felt this week as I walked around Brunswick Square in its final days. I was mournful as I saw the boarded-up windows and handwritten goodbye signs. I remembered where Bun N Burger restaurant used to be. I recalled childhood trips down the slide that used to sit inside The Children’s Place clothing store.
Lindsay and I took the kids one last time to say goodbye. I posted two videos on TikTok about it. They got hundreds of comments that fell into two categories: “Good riddance” (relax, cynics) and “what a shame.” Perhaps I’m not alone.
Some of Brunswick Square’s anchor stores will stay open during construction and eventually transfer to the overhauled site — Macy’s, JCPenney, B&N, the movie theater. That’s comforting, even though the outdoor setup won’t do much for people who used the mall for their winter walking exercise. They’ll have to schlep down to Bell Works.
I was similarly disheartened when my favorite record store, Vintage Vinyl in Fords, closed five years ago. I understood its demise, but I felt its loss in my core — a building I never lived in but sort of lived in me.
I guess this is middle age, huh? Memories burst and decay. We experience the inevitable if not necessary cycle of change.
But change is hard. And right now, I just miss my mall.
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