Someone else had added, But that’s okay, because you can’t ever really leave home in the first place. Calvin Sweet was home. If he tried real hard, he could close his eyes and recall every building lining the blocks, the sound of the afternoon train, the smells coming from the restaurants. He could recognize the feel of the sun on his face, the breeze blowing across his skin, the very scent of the air he breathed. It smelled of prairie and woodland and livestock and sandstone and oil and history and home.There were times he’d wanted to be here so badly that he’d hurt with it. Times he’d thought he would never see it again. Times he’d wanted to never see it—or anything else—again. Ironically enough, it was trying to ensure that he would never come back except in a box that had brought him alive and unwell.He didn’t close his eyes. Didn’t need a moment to take it all in. Didn’t want to see reminders of the streets where he’d grown up, where he’d laughed and played and lived and learned with an innocence that was difficult to remember.
