You are thinking of bread in the morning:

two hot, round rolls dusted with crumbs and salt.
And the coffee the hateful grandmother
would boil in a metal percolator
which she would then pour into a cup
after straining the grounds.
You are thinking of the fifteen-
minute walk to school—  
its rusted roof visible through the kitchen
window and butted up against the church
belfry painted pink and cream;
and of the stone angel in a vacant lot
which was later sold, and where
a small hotel now stands. 
In other words you are trying again
to retrace the countless steps
you've taken between a point
of origin and the distance that stretched
beyond the row of dry goods stores 
owned by Chinese and Indian 
shopkeepers, beyond the last 
bend in the zig-zag road where once
a narrow waterfall shredded itself
into a waiting river, when the motion
sickness settled and through the bus
window, the fields unspooled 
one flat ribbon at a time.

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