i've lived here for half of my life and yet, there are still so many places i haven't been. one thousand and six things i haven't seen. instead, i find myself living inside my own little word, like a mystery i haven't begun to explore quite yet. i stick to places i know like the back of my hand where my old ghosts roam free.
the gas station where i worked while still in high school. the same place where where i fell for the boy who was not my own, who once called me nancy and he was my bubba. he tossed pennies at me like i was a wishing well and when he wasn't looking i squeezed my eyes shut tight trying my best to make them come true. because that's what you do when you think you've found love, you wish their wishes and dream their dreams, and pray they all come true.
the house whose basement i shared millions of kisses with an old lover. and the things is, i can't remember his crooked smile anymore, or what his favorite color is, how his skin smelled when he held me, or how he breathes in his sleep. all of the things i spent sleepless nights trying to memorize- every detail, each moment, praying i'd never forget, all just fade with time and it's okay because i've let them all go.
the hammock sitting in my grandmother's back yard where i sprawled out with my dad in the summer heat and we talked about falling in love and how i was now a woman, and things would never really be the same, but i'd always be his little girl. he held my hand and we didn't have to say another word because we both just knew.
the place where i gave my heart away, and i laughed, and i cried, and i fell apart, and i put myself back together again.
the bar where my dad used to take me when i was a young girl. the air was thick with rolling smoke and the men and women were drunk and stumbling. they'd talk to me over the music, in between drinks of beer- breath stale, but their hearts big and pouring out through stained teeth. daddy would sing to me and i'd hum along and we drank tequila sunrises without the tequila and those days were good. when i got home, my clothes smelled of tobacco smoke and to this day cigarettes remind me of home.
the place where my brothers grew into men. where they discovered life, and heartache, and happiness, and pain, and forgiveness, and yearning, and most importantly- love. to this day, they still let me kiss them and hold their hands, even when their friends are looking and that makes my heart swell up so big. they'll always be my babies and i hope they never forget. i hope they know my love is with them wherever they go. i hope they fall down one million times. and i hope they get up and brush themselves off one million and one.
the places where memories were made- both good and bad and everything in between. i was shaped and molded over and over again.
the places that will always feel like home.
