It is a good story, worth writing down,
I think, even after all these years. And maybe it has taken all these
years for me to discover the voice with which I want to tell it. I am
thinking of the story because I am driving the road along which it
draws to an end, twenty six years ago. It was a road then, that lead
home, but no longer does, a road that I have travelled thousands of
times throughout my life, but then was travelling for the first time
in two years. I was returning home. I was twenty two years old.
Twenty two seemed older, then.
