When I'm in New York I don't walk fast enough or talk fast enough or avoid enough eye-contact. I say way too much "please" and way too much "thank you" while I hold open doors and give up my seat and pass money to every panhandler. I can't make a long "i" sound. I drop all every "ing." Even my posture is Southern. Back in the South, I am too quick with words, too swift with reason, too far from the straight and narrow. I'm cynical below the Mason-Dixon, hard around the edges, calloused from battling everyone else's Bible. A hillbilly there, an abomination here. A Took clan kind of hobbit.
My hometown isn't "home" so much as it's "town," but these woods and these streams and these mountains, where I've crashed my bike and scarred so much of my body — that is where my heart is.
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1 comment:
That is lovely!
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