Can memories live on their own, tucked away inside a certain place? We drove by the house where my husband grew up, where I first arrived in Africa, where I visited almost daily for four years. I can look at the outside, but in my mind, I am looking at the inside. The wood stairs are polished to a high shine, the furniture is still upholstered in the same light rose, and the tea is waiting to be poured into the delicate china cups out on the stoop.
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