Paris, Texas.

Home,

for now.

A comforting nook

suspended above intelligible kitchen chatter.

She yells up the staircase,

“Make sure you pack a bathing suit!”

I’m a little distracted but I make a mental note to remember one.

From the window above my desk,

I look over the swaying treetops.

All of them different heights,

Tucked neatly in the curves,

of the Alabama hills.

I imagine how they act,

when people aren’t watching.

I bet they’re spirited,

With deep laughs,

Strange, unpredictable.

Their long arms fight

the sticky hot Alabama wind.

I’d never noticed

how wanky their branches grow.

They’ve got such vast tops,

and such skinny trunks,

how do they stand up so straight?

Deep roots.

Today we leave for Texas.

Where the wind is dry,

Not sticky.

The trees shorter,

And scattered in thickets.

The low trees near life,

On the ground,

Holding small glimpses.

Glimpses of siblings

sword fighting with twigs.

Glimpses of cousins in the tall grass,

Picking stickers from their feet.

Glimpses of a small girl,

Saving a mouse from the dog.

I’ve missed it there.

Home,

home.