Beavercreek, Ohio, USA
tired of reading
I drive down Springfield's side streets—railroad tracks hidden beneath ragweed, rubble where a factory once stood, run-down housing—thinking about my students who live here.
They're courageous. They've survived these streets. They've moved past their lots in life. Yet, many flee to pulp and fantasy as if those were winning tickets out of here.
Haven't I shared with them my own past—papa with PTSD; mama, a child of war?
Haven't I told them that the best writing often rises from personal tragedies?
I turn the car toward suburbia, heading home into the night.
storm their pages...