Page 130 of Wayfarers

with spears for plows and fields

of barley and rye. Maybe they knew

what I do now, which is that so much of our

experience is a process of deciding which

awful problems to swap out

for somewhat less awful problems.

I can barely remember the place

I lived until we hit the road. It isn’t a part

of me. It’s not an axis on which I turned.

I have a void on the shelf in my heart

with the label “home” under it.

I wonder if you can choose a hometown

and make it yours by sheer force of will.

If you can ever really reclaim something stolen

from you before you ever knew

it was something you could have had.

Knox

“What are you thinking about?” Sylvie asks as we walk toward the post office.

“Who says I’m thinking about anything?”

“I mean, sure, that’s always a possibility with any male under the age of twenty—”

“Or over.”

“Yes, thank you, or over the age of twenty, that you’re literally envisioning a blank sheet of white printer paper at any given time.”

“You’re giving us entirely too much credit with the blank piece of paper.”

“Oh God. I don’t even wanna know. Anyway, you seemed deep in thought.” Sylvie pats at her pockets and rolls her eyes. “Forgot my PO box key.” We turn and start walking back to the van.

“It’s fun seeing you here,” I say.

“The post office?”

“Springfield.”

“Really?” In the van, Sylvie starts rummaging through the center console.

“Sure.”

“Why?”