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Weekly Contest #346
Home is a place that doesn’t exist. Or, at least it used to. The years of my childhood sprawl out before me as I drive home on the I-90 to Boston. I feel as though I could reach out and grab these fragments; the signposts, the orange glow of streetlamps, and the old oaks lined up like soldiers against the gray bruised sky. It is somewhere on this road that it settles over me. This is the last time that I will ever make this trip; Chicago to Boston. And now, even this beaten down route makes me feel as if nothing will feel familiar again. All...
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