By FoundWalking

Spring Plantings

Met my parents for brunch at a classic Wisconsin supper club. Bikers in their leather jackets crowded the bar shoulder to shoulder with church goers and local farmers. Bartenders poured Bloody Mary's and beer backs, waitresses hustled plates of Eggs Benedict and cinnamon fritters, kids rolled the floor between their parents feet.

It was almost June and reports of snow still lingered up north. We were moving east, a view of the Atlantic. All my life I've lived here in the flatlands, where corn sweeps up to the horizon.

Now I have to learn a new vocabulary. They regard me as a foreigner. I don't pull traps, follow tides, or know how to shuck clams. I have no love of the ocean or the endless sky.

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