Last summer I stood across the street from the first childhood home that I can remember. It was the first time in forty years that I had stood in that spot, with home in my sights. My present-day self could still feel the cold against my nose, pressed against the glass of our neighbor’s front door. My very first memory. The lines of fifty-nine and two blurred in that moment of coming home.
Kalamazoo —
the city where I come from
and where I am home
