I loved this deeply personal story from Meg Sefton.
Mike Kniec, To Grandmother’s House We Go, flickr
I went to a small liberal arts college in North Carolina. Often I took a path that cut through the woods, a path that connected our small campus to a street of high end shops in town. In the heart of the woods there was a little bridge arching over a small brook. Beside it there was a stone cherub. When I was unhappy senior year, I often sat beside the brook to quiet my mind. Changes would be happening soon upon graduation. Life would no longer be as simple as cramming for tests or writing papers. I had to find work. And I did not know where I might find work. And I didn’t want to go home.
Over my college years, I had become distant from my parents, my father and stepmother. They didn’t often visit at school, not even…
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