Moving On, Not Moving On I think I knew our new home was two states west of home. But what could that have meant across that patch of Illinois—treeless, barren, flat under heavy April snow? When you were six, shoveling raised icy walls to walk between, high, cold narrows. Even cliffs. And from this distance—now like a cruel cliché— isolation, such disjuncture! But back then, up close? Remember oblivion to whatever came next? I envy my own young way: no...
