Eighteen years ago, I’d just moved back to Poland. Having spent two years in Boston, I’d grown restless and missed my life in rural Poland — the kids I taught, the friends I’d made, the beauty of the area. I’d go for walks after school...
They’re all strangers, yet all related to me. I don’t know a single name, a single face, except that I’m fairly sure that this image, found in my mother’s belongings after she passed away, is of her mother’s family. So the Gordons....
There is a stream that runs the village where my wife grew up. Our relationship began, one might say, by taking long walks to that stream where we would watch her dog play in the water.
In the fields around my in-laws’ house. These were the fields my wife played in while growing up, the fields in which we walked as our relationship developed, the fields in which my children play when we spend the summer with...
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