Category: Willows, Memories from Back Home
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Blackberry Days
Coming home is a quiet kind of reckoning.The road curves the same way, but the view is different.My mother — just shy of ninety — still makes pies with the same steady hands,rolling dough like she always has,as if the…
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The Antique Round Table
When my mother was a little girl. The school asked—Bring what you can.A penny. A nickel. A dollar if you were lucky. Each week, the children lined up.Coins warm from their hands.Dropped one by one into a small box. At…
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My Godmother Mary
My Godmother Mary has always had a way of lighting up the room before she even steps into it.Her home, once brimming with color and curious little things, felt like walking into a story. Every corner whispered charm, a kind…
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Back Home
I’m standing in the house where I first knew the world. The walls feel the same.The ground holds me like it remembers my weight. It hits me somewhere between the front steps and the kitchen light—this quiet feeling, soft as…
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Over to the Other Side…Going Home
Back to California, I would have never believed that I would have lived longer in France, than I ever lived in the States—which still feels odd, even now. But California I call home. That’s just what it is. I’m going…
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The 4th
Somewhere between the anthem and the silence, I wonder: is liberty still ringing, or is that the echo of something we forgot to hold for all? America, the beautiful- be true. Google