From 1979 to 2023 I lived in Griffin, Georgia and never belonged. Forty-four years is long enough to raise children, to memorize the turn of every street, to know which pecan tree drops first in October and which church lets out earliest on Sunday. Long enough to bury a dog, to plant azaleas twice, to learn the rhythm of cicadas and the red dust that settles on porch rails no matter how often you wipe it away. Long enough to be known. And yet— I was always slightly mis-shelve