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Canton
By Leah Dietle In the cold of early April, when the frost still clings to grass like enamored lovers, and winter’s last icy breath clings to spring’s dew- that’s when I was brought home. My hometown: a modest white house with wood in the back, serving as the backdrop of my escapist fantasies. Running feet crunching sticks and dirt staining my knees, the sun casting a hazy auburn in its metamorphosis to dusk; my mother’s call ricochet between the trees. Come home, Come home. My hometown: Where buckeyes break from the trees; digging into my back when I fall. The sublime knocking at the front door: Come play, Come play.…
