Sometimes my home seems like an empty shell full of relics, scattered everywhere. It breathes in these moments, gathers its strength for the next push, as do we all. But sometimes I wonder about its limits. To what lengths can I push these walls that I purchased for a death grip? And for that matter, what of my kids, my wife, myself? When the home breathes, I can just make out a fork in the path, one side leading straight away from my country, across the border into treacherous-looking terrain. And I wonder.
Do they have diners on that road?