Whenever I think of moving away, choosing a different life, another thing happens inside this small town. At halftime, the men and boys head back to the kitchen for more chicken wing dip and stromboli and chocolate truffles shaped like tiny footballs. Only the women stay with Beyonce, our mouths hanging open, all of us reminiscing about the year it was Springsteen.
Outside, snow keeps falling hard. And despite the many mistakes I’ve made, this is where I raised my children. So even now, in the middle of the storm, none of us is far from home.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 