When I was in my teens,
there was a line of trees
along a road near my
house. In front of them were
rows of low bushes. You
could sit in between and
feel like you were lost in
a primeval forest.
I’m sure that it was the
product of the hard work
of some municipal
landscaping worker. But
to me, it was like a
secret world, completely
severed from the earthly
plane. I would hide there, spend
hours on end, with my
walkman, a filched bag of
chips, and a book or three.

As an adult, I found
myself repeatedly
trying to recreate
my crèche, but never could
recapture that sense of
safety, of solitude.

One day, I came home to
visit my parents. And
saw my sanctuary
had been ripped out to make
room for a tract mansion.
I never came back to
Spoon River after that
day, until I came here