Every year or so I retrace the paths back to my parents’ roots enjoying long afternoons on front porch swings, sweet tea at bar-be-ques, and family of all sorts. Even though I have never lived in Texas my friends at home mark me as more of a Texan than a friend who moved there a couple year ago. I may have a slight accent when I go back, use words like y’all and sweet pea, and share a hankering for brisket and second amendment rights, but a Texan is someone who lives in Texas. I don’t. That I my argument.
I have so many memories of this drive, breaking down in Blythe, Ca, losing air conditioning in the middle of Arizona when B was a baby, getting caught in a flood coming out of San Antonio, and driving through the night to arrive at grandma’s in time for grandpa’s funeral. There is space to think write, reflect, read, and (my sisters’ favorite) watch movies.
Each time we drive out there is a new layer of memories to wade through and a new view of time’s ravaging effects on people I love.