Oh to be here.
Mountains that grow and mountains that shrink the further away you get. Oil pumping away by the side of every road in things that look like ancient dinosaurs come back to earth but spitting black goo instead of grass or whatever it was that they ate.
Family all around and a barbeque later once evening starts to settle in. Steaks, potato salad, and corn. All right but dreadfully unseasoned up.
The problem. Grow up somewhere else, and something never fits. Missouri. Not that many states away but Mother with New Orleans blood and seasoning everything up. But a Western fellow coming along at that office after college and date after date until the ring turned up.
All of that all right but the other still missed. Land flat as a pancake until something starts rising up. Buttes that rise straight up into the sky like multi-colored birthday cake candles, one side melted and the other not.
Fun but still. An album brought out in the trousseau trunks stuffed into every room and a special tiny one in the front pocket of every pocketbook. Heavy to carry but not where anyone ever looks. A portable home whenever life gets too hard and you need to go back.
But a special one for a new pocketbook that had hidden itself away. Grandfather’s farm that time Mother got so sick and everyone had to stay.
That part hard but the rest fun. Fences to perch on and horses to ride. Hills to ride through and creeks that never ran dry in summer. . . another few years and no water at all . . . but not then . . . no . . . .water so cold it made your forehead hurt and all you wanted . . .