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Margaret of Scotland

I’ve been ten miles from the border, but no closer. Its existence is purely mental: the acknowledgement of an undiscovered country.

Land borders fascinate me: between state and state, country and country. When in Louisville, I asked Faith to take the bridge across the Ohio, to touch Indiana for the briefest moment, before turning back south. And when I passed from the Netherlands to Belgium, almost a year ago, I tried to gauge the change in terms more subtle than the road signs. No checkpoint, no waving of a passport, and yet a heartbeat separated two histories, two identities.

Those lines we draw between us, always definitive.