I left Ohio at eighteen, trading its slow, expansive landscapes for something louder, faster. And yet, I find myself longing for what I once looked past: the hushed geometry of fields, the solemn stance of barns, the sentinel grain silos rising against a flat sky.
There’s an intimacy there, one that doesn’t announce itself. It’s in the drawn curtains, the step ladder left leaning against chipped siding, the disordered pile of wood untouched by symmetry. These quiet details—easily overlooked—offer fleeting invitations into lives I’ll never fully know.
A glance, a shadow, a pause at the edge of someone’s world. That’s where the closeness lives.