Dreaming of Portland? Or San Francisco? Or New York? Go.
My father always said that the only way he was leaving this city was feet first.
It was his way of letting us know that, should he get old and decrepit, he wasn’t getting shipped off to an assisted living facility in a second-ring suburb. No siree.
Aside from winters in Palm Springs, he wasn’t moving anywhere. He was going to die in the city he was born in, just a few miles from where his parents raised him in south Minneapolis.
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