I like to pretend the family and I live on a farm, especially when I get to writing. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Despite the clothesline and vegetable garden, we are rocking a quarter acre plot in the middle of suburbia.
There are a handful of times when I can close my eyes, breathe in fresh cut grass and convince myself we live somewhere else. But then I open my eyes to see my neighbor’s porch covered in weeds and hear the screech of tires when the drivers decide to actually stop at the stop sign adjacent to our house.