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Dear Twelve-Year-Old Me: Don’t put Sun-In in your hair. It will create an ongoing cycle of peroxide and bleach that will only end when you move to Wisconsin sixteen years later and can’t find a hairdresser who will cut and highlight

“Hey, Honey,” the cashier said. “Got any plans for the weekend?” I was so caught off-guard, I almost laughed. “This is my second weekend here.” She smiled. “Oh, you like it?” I explained that I was actually returning to Tennessee after living in

Barn swallows are writing invisible calligraphy in the azure sky, and the unglaciered hills in the distance are brilliant, summer green. Hummingbirds are sipping nectar from the purple flower baskets hanging from the eaves. An abandoned windmill, in the next

My sister-in-law, for my twenty-ninth birthday, mailed me a tiny gold ring inset with a freshwater pearl. Her cards are always the best—each square inch of paper filled with words of encouragement—and in that card she told me I was