The House on Deer Creek Road: Part 4
This was not my mother’s house anymore. But with every room full of her memories, it would always feel that way. I had to shake whatever imprints she’d left behind. I had to remove her from the atmosphere.
This was not my mother’s house anymore. But with every room full of her memories, it would always feel that way. I had to shake whatever imprints she’d left behind. I had to remove her from the atmosphere.
America has always sold itself like a potluck dinner—“Bring your culture! Bring your grandma’s recipes! Bring the funky spices we can pretend we invented!”