It is a movie playing in my head, pausing then reeling forward, a series of images of things I equate with the place. Conversations. Pieces of conversations about here and there. Mostly there, those are the ones that bring me back. Feet dangling, the boat belonging to the most genuine companions the universe would allow. Wind blowing. It smells good here.
Guitars, good boys and good girls.
Watching a lightening storm as the sun goes down in the distance of a lake that belongs to a tiny town. A tiny town that is mine. A little later, blackness. Maybe its the fourth of July, that’s our favorite. I wake up in the middle of the night, thunder. God reminds us he is still there. Still. God, I miss thunder.
Remember. Savannah. Driving that route on a sticky, sexy, summer day. The universe threw together, once again, a miracle. I thought to myself how the sky and I16 seemed to last forever. But nothing ever lasts forever. The clouds dance to the sweet southern summer. But you can’t miss anything once. You can’t miss it all at once.
Maybe it’s existential. Closer to me. Closer to being who I want to be, satisfied at once with who I am. God, it’s a good place. Scary space. The reel makes a ticking noise letting me know that my script is turning, on track. In line, the black and white moves to the rhythm of my tiny hands plotting. Always plotting, moving. The plot is there. Nostalgia makes me present.
I’m coming home. I’m home. I don’t even know where or why or how. That statement, without even understanding it, is enough. Remember?