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Front Porch Nonfiction
Issue 8
- Correspondences by Valerie Nieman
One day not long after I moved from West Virginia to North Carolina, I glanced down a dirt road and saw how water sat in a crescent of the road curving deeper into the trees. My breath stopped and so did I, not sure where I was. This is le terroir of our being. Whatever I remembered had happened so long ago that it had lost all names and associations, leaving only emotion twined in my flesh.
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