How not to forget who we are

Because stories are more than just stories

When I was eight years old, there was nothing I wanted more than a goat. I wanted to bring one home, set him up in our back yard so he’d play and run around and butt things with his head — forgetting, of course, that all he’d actually do is eat everything in sight.

Why did I want this? I have no idea, honestly, other than the heart wants what it wants. …

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