Tyler Jacobson
Back home by Louis Jenkins

The place I lived as a child, the sharecropper’s farmhouse with
its wind-bent mulberry trees and rusted farm machinery has
completely vanished. Now there’s nothing but plowed fields for
miles in any direction. When I asked around in town no one
remembered the family. No way to verify my story. In fact,
there’s no evidence that any of what I remember actually hap-
pened, or that the people I knew ever existed. There was my
uncle Axel, for instance, who spent most of his life moving from
one job to another, trying to “find himself.” He should have
saved himself the trouble. I moved away from there a long time
ago, when I was a young man, and came to the cold spruce
forests of the north. The place I thought I was going is imagi-
nary, yet I have lived here most of my life.


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