the roads to home

Reconciliation is the mending of bone and flesh and soul.

It is peace and understanding; Lord knows I am in great need of both.

I took a drive South over the weekend. Made dinner for some dear friends, and missed a wedding I was supposed to attend. That was a night where I felt I kept making the wrong turns. Both physically and with a heavy dose of life comparison. Luckily, I still have an Oregon tag on my car, in defense of my directionless brain.

I do, however, know how to go South.

That was my life, and it certainly is again.

God, there’s some beauty here. Even on those messy, warm nights I am filled up with the sounds of cicadas and frogs and perhaps the sounds of Kenny Chesney from a big truck.

I walked past a couple kissing in the parking lot of a Thai restaurant. This was after I listened to them singing “Afternoon Delight”, barely able to keep pitch, or their balance. I smiled big.

In my head, I am constantly mending my lives. In big chunks I smoosh them together. I lived here once, went away, and now I live here again. I am a bit different, and that’s okay.
I drive across the state line into Louisiana. The other place I spent a lot of life in, chasing cousins around furniture and finding easter eggs under the great Magnolia.

I pull over for supplies at Rouses. Mostly hot sauce. A shrink wrapped muffuletta and a bag of Zapps potato chips. That dill kind that rip up my tongue so good. I think about how my taste buds have changed over the years. Not enough apparently, that I buy some really dry eclairs for my mom. They looked good in the case, I thought.

Processed with VSCOcam with c1 preset

I drive to a place where me and my dad used to pull blue crabs from Lake Pontchartrain. All the spots are taken, so I pull over and walk to a wall and get to breathe in a bit more of my history. I think about the places I’ve lived, and what it took for me to get there. I kick around an old beer can someone had left and filled full of cigarette butts.

I make my way back North, before the storm. The same roads that brought me places when I was a kid. I go in and out of thoughts like I’m reading a book, distracted.

Next thing ya know, I’ve been driving an hour, then two.

I spot the gas station where I filled up before I left Mississippi five years ago.

I think about my life during those years, and I smoosh it all together. The roads to home are all over, I have figured out.

Intersecting, opposing, parallel.

and I cruise through them mile signs,

one memory at a time.


9 responses to “the roads to home”

  1. This write feels so sentimental. I grew up in Louisiana myself before coming to Mississippi, leaving and coming back again. Never been out west but I’m still a gypsie at heart so I find myself reminiscing about all the states I lived in while I was looking for a home I could really call my own.

    Now I’m back in Mississippi again. It’s like an old friend and a seven year itch.. But finally after all these years, it feels like home. Makes me wonder why I still feel the urge to escape it again. I guess old habits die hard.

  2. Evocative post – love the bits about the magnolias, cicadas, the couple outside the Thai restaurant, the mending of where you have been with where you are, and that gorgeous water photograph.

  3. For some reason, whenever I hear that song “All Of Me” by John Legend, I think of you. When I hear the words: “Love your curves and all your edges. All your perfect imperfections.”, I think of you because I think you are just that kind of person. You accept that despite the faults of others, you still love them.

  4. Really good stuff! It’s the same for me here back in Florida, so I know exactly how you feel.

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