I thought home was this place you could buy. You could purchase enough throw pillows and rocking chairs and patio lights to make sure you had a sense for the word. When you were lost and someone asked where home was, you’d give them the address on your custom stationary. You’d say the blue Victorian on the street you love. The one with the white shutters and the tire swing out front. Take me home, you’d say, and you’d of course be trying to give directions.

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I can’t be sure. I don’t really bet on timing anymore. Plans are something I’ve learned to write in pencil, not pen.

But I think this might be my last spring here.

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Loss for Words

  It’s hard to catch a clear photo of him when he’s two thousand miles away. But oh my God, when he smiles.   I don’t even know how to write about it.

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Gamble with Me

I took a deep breath, raised a trembling hand, and knocked.

I heard footsteps inside. A small pause as the lock turned. And then, the door cracked open. The first thing I noticed–and what I suddenly remembered from a lifetime ago–were those blue eyes.

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Taking on the Pacific Northwest. Solo.

  Nearly a year ago, I was dreaming of the Pacific Northwest.   I’d stir in the night, reeling from images of gentle rain and dense forests and cool, misty air in my Southern lungs.   Of course I’d been there for just a moment–just a flash in the larger scheme of life. But as

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