A few months ago, I had lunch with a long-time friend who was moving across country. After our sandwiches and burgers, the time came for that farewell hug. As we embraced, I felt the tears squeeze out, and I said, “I’m not crying because you’re leaving. I’m crying because, in your leaving, I feel how much I love you.”
I like to think of writing as a search for things that have been lost, hidden, misplaced, ignored, forgotten, buried, or stashed behind the backyard fence. See there? As soon as I wrote “backyard fence,” I saw an image of the dog-eared fence behind the pink stucco house where I lived as a little girl.
