Seven years later, I am now in Grand Rapids again, which is a kind of beautiful, full-circle moment.
The house is, by nature, transient.
Under the Madison Street bridge, the tree that grows sideways suddenly popped flowers that smelled like corn tortillas.
There are no miscalculations or extraneous details—things are only borrowed or loaned between neighbors.
I care a lot about things like that. I want people to remember good things about me.
The next morning she was clutching the screen door with her dainty insect toes.
No one has any idea what to do, and we’re all trying to use what we’ve got to make things work.
The first time I saw her, I was sitting on Cotter’s lap—he had been my best friend for probably six years at that point—at a meeting I crashed after coming home early from France.
“Why is no one washing their hands before going to lunch?!”
“There are peacocks in Creston?!??”
