where my mind goes when I think about wanting to write. Remembering watching rented VHS movies that we would get on the way to Timberville. Still seeing the building on the side of the road on Route 42. Remembering the glow of the lamps and the static fuzz of the TV and feeling safe and warm. Remembering eating corn on the cob under the big tree in the green backyard. Asking, 'did I eat all of it?' and Maw Maw saying, 'a bird could clean the corn better than that.' Remembering the smell of the firewood in the basement and the heat of the furnace in the dark corner. The treadmill and the rowing machine and being tall enough to pull the metal cord of the lightbulb. The weight of the door to the basement and the creaking of the steps. The tartness of the cherry trees and climbing on top of the new shed to left of the old metal shed. The smell of oil and gasoline and seeing spiders and wasps. The light coming through the grape vine and learning to throw a frisbee and how to hit a ball with a bat and running laps around the horse. The feeling of not wanting to leave on Sunday afternoon. The taste of ice water from the tap and the heavy blankets that I would always kick off in my sleep. Each memory is precious. Each is a step on the path I have taken.