Rockford, Illinois, and I have ghosted each other for decades, but we refuse to quit each other completely. I grew up there but left after high school, returning occasionally to visit my family, who continued to reside among the strip malls, manufacturing plants, and my former teenage angst. Throughout, my mother continued to insist the city was better than ever, but I rejected her claims. Years passed, and my dad died. More years passed. My mom died too. Now, Rockford is still the place I left behind, and while I’m still hesitant to believe it’s better than ever, it’s where I return when I want to remember the early life that shaped me.

To visit, my children and I drive west and a little north from our home in Chicago. We inch past the suburbs, out to where the traffic thins, and we catc

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