#36

he kept pictures of his hometown in his suitcase. everywhere he traveled he sent postcards to his family, his friends.
they were not of buffalo in wyoming, nor were they, later, of the castles in england, the eiffel tower, the glory of water in a mideast desert. rarely did he even remember his camera in these places.
they always arrived with slightly crinkled corners and scrawling cursive on the back. red and yellow sunsets, the long, winding road out of town, the mismatched houses of the west side of town, a shoe left on main street.
he traveled to learn, to grow, to feel, but he always knew he would never find anywhere that would change him concretely, so painfully, so poignantly as that place he knew as home.