Every day my community makes me wonder how we’ve all survived this long without burning the neighborhood down. Take yesterday. Mrs. Jenkins called an emergency meeting because her garden gnome was “looking at her funny.” We all gathered in the church basement, sipping weak coffee, while she held up the gnome like it was Exhibit A in a criminal trial. “His eyes weren’t this judgmental last week,” she insisted. Then there’s Leroy, who swears he saw a UFO land behind the Piggly Wiggly. Turns out it was just the new Taco Truck’s metallic roof catching the sun, but we still call him “Area 51” now. He hates it. We love it. I can’t even go for a morning walk without bumping into old man Henry sitting on his porch, hollering, “You’re walking too fast—slow down! You’ll miss the gossip!” Then he proceeds to tell me everything about everyone, including me, which I find impressive. Some days I roll my eyes so hard I worry they’ll get stuck. But then, like clockwork, someone brings over peach cobbler just because I mentioned on Facebook I was “having a day,” or they shovel my walkway before I wake up, or they leave a little sticky note on my door that says, “You’re part of us.” And every day, my community makes me… stay.