When I think back to my Midwestern childhood home, my mind conjures images of windy dirt roads that unspool before
your eyes. I can see the stalks of corn punctuating the fields that I romped on as I tried to catch an airborne dandelion seed as my brother and I laughed and laughed until our insides hurt. The overripe apple sunsets are what I remember most. I also remember the way that we reclined in the back of my father’s pickup truck and watched day and night switch places. We used to stare into the sky. We even staked claim on stars as though we personally owned them, having the nerve to give them names.