I’m twenty-seven, have a six year old and I am married to a math genius. I’m a dumb hyper kid. I write poetry. Lately about war. Right now I am watching c-span 2. I don’t know if I can trust the General speaking. He looks honest. My brother is a soldier. He’s going back to war.I just graduated from college with a writing degree. It helped. I have realized that punctuation will not kill me.My husband is interviewing for jobs, and soon he will get one, and we will move away from Lake Superior.We have made many friends that we don’t want to leave but jobs are scarce in the north, and so we plan our departure. I leave a part of myself and take a part of this town, this land, these friends with me. There is still sand in my blue jean pockets.I don’t want to leave. Marquette is my writing home. My place to stretch and run and play. Is the peace I feel inside from maturity or is a product of my location? The slow mornings of writing, the looking out to the blue, the song singing, the thimbleberry eating and bunny, bird, squirrel, watching. The silent steps into the night sky and brilliance of the stars. The twitching northern lights. The brisk nights standing by a fire with a hot tea with honey. How far away will I wonder from my lady, the great lake before I won’t be able to shut my eyes and visualize her? I may never return. It maybe to painful, to innocent to return. I may have to stand off, far and attempt to forget the life I had. I will surely make a new one. I will not find better views or friends. I will not hear better poetry or drink better coffee. But maybe I’ll find a substitute. Madison, look for me. I’ll be the chubby kid with the fistful of poems and the coffee stained frown.