By Andrew R. Duckworth
The way to my hometown is marked by memory-memories of wading in mud and jumping in lakes; memories of scrapes, scars, and bandages; memories of teardrops and memories of numbness. The road is long, and I have few reasons to travel it. Yet, occasionally, I feel my feet take a step in that direction, and, before I know it, I’m back in the mud, getting caught by thorns, and shedding teardrops like it all happened yesterday.
