Kasha Gauthier: In the Spring of 2020, I traveled weekly from Boston to my hometown in NH. My dad was dying- unexpectedly, rapidly, of early-onset dementia. The waves of COVID lockdowns were moving north. Each drive might be my last. One day towards the end, the signs along the narrow country roads began speaking to me. As I often do, I pulled over onto the shoulder and began writing. Writing this poem, an ode to an imperfect place, felt like an offering- an offering to my dad, to my childhood, and to the place that held us both.