Very clearly, in memory, I see the girl I was at fourteen, beautiful and determined, leaving the blue house where she had grown up.
I see myself in the back of a truck, perched atop a pile of cordwood. The two men inside the truck, transporting the wood to be sold in a distant village, show no concern for any danger I might face traveling over bumpy roads balanced on those heavy logs. As we head down the long driveway, the girl I was looks back at her home for the last time.