“I’ve brought home the lopsided house that I made out of Popsicle sticks, carefully holding it on my lap for the whole ride back to Albany. But when we pile out of the Robinsons’ car and walk toward the station, I drop it in the first trash can I pass. I don’t need to be told that it’s no use to me now. Popsicle-stick homes are too fragile, and carrying one around doesn’t make sense anymore. It’s a burden. Why would I want to remember summer camp? I’m about to be hungry again. And yet summer camp stays with me, not in the form of souvenir crafts, and not as a fun, nostalgic memory, but as a guiding light.””
A Place Called Home
