The place where I am from is made of wind. There are mountains, that’s true. And potatoes. And a deep river that stitches small towns together. There are fields and fields of lava rock spilling out of the hills like a dark purple sea.
But it’s the wind that people remember.
The incessant breath of God screaming through the air, bringing tears to our eyes, destroying all our fences.
At least that’s what people tell me. All I remember is cookie dough, drive-ins, and lawn mowers. All I remember are tigers and grizzly bears.