Even in January, I rumble down the backroads with my window down. Farther along W Andrews Street, the grey rain streaks like a water color brush going dry. Pleasant View intersects, and to the south I see my tiny hometown at the edge of the big storm, just out of reach of the blue sky. The clouds compress the last light into a thin stream of pale gold, bearing down like they could flatten the silhouetted grain elevators and water tower. The buildings fit between my fingers.
I drive through every day, but I haven’t lived there since 2011.
Eventually everyone has to realize they can never go home.