Homeland

The physical spaces to which we are held—from home to our memories of home, be it a certain slant of light or the smell of burning sand. It is in these places that we grew to who we are.

Of course, these physical spaces could be as broad as the Arkansas (pronounced our-KAN-sas) Rivers or forests and cliffs around Saint Louis, where I grew from a girl into a woman, or they could be the smell of wet coal, loose sticks, or true images of an endless, placeless summer that has never and has always existed, un-specifically memorable, real not in gathered objects, but in the strength grown in our bones.