The old house at the crossroads, its raw wood grown to a deep, dull gray, was already old and gray the first time my father drove us down the rocky dirt road to the farm. Its walls tilted and its porch sagging, the abandoned dwelling was the last piece of evidence I needed as proof that we would soon arrive at the end of the earth.

It hasn’t changed much in the 50-something years since I first saw it. The last remaining panes of wavy glass were shot out by drunk teenagers at least 30 years ago and the crepe myrtle tree that used to bloom in the fall has been completely overrun by sedge brush, but it remains the landmark by which we and our neighbors offer navigation to people who don’t use GPS. And it turned out that the end of the earth is exactly where I was supposed to be.

Almost exac

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