My father has lived in the same state his whole life. Texas is big, so it’s not exactly like he’s been tied to the same one stoplight town. And yet. The same state his whole life.
I think it must be nice.
Eighteen years, I grew up in Texas. Formative.
Six, I grew up in Ohio. Transformative.
It’s strange to think of the Midwest that way, but the facts are the facts.
I think it must be nice, to have lived in the same state one’s whole life. People come and go, but the geography is comforting. My whole family lives fairly close to each other in North Texas. I love going home.
My whole family also lives fairly close to each other in Cincinnati. I love going home.
My bus got in Thursday morning at 11. My heart has been so full. To be known. To be seen. To be hugged, to be held. I worked Thursday night, back at the restaurant I worked in prior, and I could’ve burst I was so happy to see everyone. The rhythm was unbroken, after four months. Even without the head injury I sustained later that night, I’d still be blissed out. I stopped here to vote, to collect some things I left, and store up for the winter so to speak. I’m recollecting.
Then there’s Brooklyn. A veritable honeymoon. The people I left there I was only just starting to fall in love with. Take me back.
And Woodstock. The hills, the trees, the air. The organic grocer with kombucha on tap. I could stay.
I guess this is a small note to let you know, I’m wondering if this trip is stretching me. Stretching my heartstrings far and taut.
I’m thinking of my father because it seems incredible to dig in and have roots. My life is “where to next?”, currently a constant state of the next move. All forward motions counts. And yet.
Eventually, I’ll have to live somewhere.
How can I choose?
Where to last?
It’s good to be back, however brief.
I love you. I miss you. I hope to see you soon.