Going home again

I returned to the village of my teen years on a spring break from college. I dragged, sans any kicking and screaming, my friend and fellow library clerk (left in the beret) . It was March, but it was still frigidly cold.

I spent many evenings up on this hill when I was younger, watching the sun set behind the mountains and fields, waiting for the lights in the homes to be turned on one by one. When the village twinkled sufficiently like a Christmas tree, I descended. The town was my gift.