My home, the place of rich, fertile soil, nourishing towering Copper Beeches for centuries, almost as long as my family has harvested from its fertile waters. My home, the place that made me, but never saw me. The reason I feel insignificant, the reason I feel important — the reason I’ve ever felt anything at all. My home, the internationally renowned, prestigious destination for the rich and famous — the tiny tine of a fork that has drowned me alive. I could never live up to your expectations. And there was nothing here for me to inherit anyway, but unreliable stories and salt air.