The open road stood before me like an old, weathered, greatly cherished friend. I'd been using the freeway my whole life. We'd become quite fond of one another. The sun had set an hour or so before, leaving the lingering warmth in the humid air thick and somehow comforting. It was oddly warm for mid-October. Normally I would be frustrated, as I love feeling the cold on my face, but tonight I bestowed upon it a half smile. I let the windows roll down and lazily draped my arm out the window.
The taillights ahead of me were blinking on and off, on and off as the drivers would occasionally brake to accommodate another vehicle, sometimes by choice and sometimes by instinct. Some drivers were purely reckless. I sighed contentedly, Jon Foreman playing at a low volume. I wasn't quite sure when I had turned it down, yet I did remember that I had wanted to hear the freeway breathe, if only for a little bit. I was headed back to my roots, to see the places I came from. I wanted to remember and cherish and discover again. Texas is a country of its own, my Texan pride will tell you that much. Acres and acres of rolling land for you to tumble out of your cars and spin into fields of blue bonnets, smiling up at the millions of stars.
Yes, Texas was a place of supreme beauty. I had not spent the majority of my life there, but it's where I was born, and where my parents were born. I had a copy of the journal of one of my direct ancestors kept when he came to Texas from Germany, translated into English from the original German. It was deeply embedded in my heritage, the genetics of my being. I had Texas dust in my very cells. It was calling me to return and familiarize myself with it's nuances once again.
I think a great part of me wanted answers. Why did I turn out this way? Why do I prefer this certain food? This flavor? What was the land whispering when I was born? Where are the places my story began? Do I still carry pieces of my homeland in the way I walk? Talk? Carry myself? Or has age, grief, and distance washed it all from me, leaving muddied canvas where they had once been a picture? I knew in my heart that this trip could not answer all of these questions. Some were asked in a way the land could not pretend or even hope to know. But simply being there would satisfy the unanswered feelings within me, feelings ignored and hushed like a curious child scorned, only because the adult the child had asked did not know the answers requested of them.
There were fireflies dancing outside. I only caught glimpses of them now and again, but they were beautiful. Lighting up against a dark, musky background, almost as if to say that just because there was darkness didn't mean you couldn't find your way. I turned the Jon Foreman CD back up, one of my favorite song's lyrics slowly drifting through the speakers and embracing me as if I was a delicate little girl, bound to break if not cared for.
"And the words are new
But I recognize the tone
'If you love her let her go'
She's beautifully composed
A tune that only caged birds know"
It was so beautiful. The thought of loving someone so much, but willingly releasing them to make their own choices. I think there's nothing more loving than true sacrifice in the name of another. I picked up my cup of tea, only a few drops remaining, and put it down again absentmindedly. My mind was wandering over summers past and forgotten evenings. Shaking it all off, I set my face forward. I was on a journey of discovery, and as each mile would pass, each piece of land being set behind me, I knew I would be driving through the night, and in the morning I would find myself the closest place I could call ever home.
