Word Made Flesh

When I return home, that place where I grew up and learned how to drive and how to pray and that King’s hot fudge pecan ice cream ball may not cure a broken heart but it sure can dull the ache for a while, I wear very special glasses.

Anyone can have a pair of glasses like mine; when wearing them, all the past seems like some gilded dream, where we never argued with our parents, and every hurt was healed with the exact right words. When wearing them, all I see are perfect shapes to every memory, even the ugly ones. The glasses are invisible and of my own design. I am complicit in my nostalgia.

Read the rest at Deeper Story.

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