I was 26 years old; the same age my father was when he arrived in America in 1969 with seventy-five cents in his pocket. It was my first birthday without him
Tonight I’ll blame the sherry for the fanciful images playing in the back of my mind—an evening, a mellow light cast from the hearth into a room textured with polished wood and soft things, a sofa lumpy with pillows, a thick, nubbled carpet, its surface worn to silkiness.
My mother’s mother was a city girl, and no number of chickens – their heads popping off on the block as her husband relieved each body of brain – could make her otherwise. Not that she didn’t try.
Start with an incident most people see as unfortunate but you perceive as life changing; the skewed perspective will enhance your experience. The incident should happen while on your Outer Banks vacation, the highlight of your year.