Going Home.

Going home is such a ridiculous statement. You can never go home. You cannot go back to what once was. Ofcourse it is physically there for most of us, but for me it will never be what I remember. It will never be what I loved. Infact, did I love it all to have left it the way I did? Everytime I go "home", I walk in as if I had never left. It feels so far from natural its not describable. I don't belong there anymore. I am merely a guest with a lifetime pass. God how I miss the trees, the smell of clean air, the dark nights with stars, and the small roads that need patching. With all the things time has let me forget, I cannot shake the sound of my blazer pulling out of the gravel drive way. I can clearly see the road to my house and the four way stop sign I ran on many drunken nights. My blazer is long sold and wrecked. That is not my road or my house or my driveway. I ran away from all that years ago. I escaped, and I hate when I have to turn around and look back.
I should be asleep. I have important things to do 'morrow. Her words keep running through my head, and I am worried. " Shannon, I need you to come home a few days early. We have to talk. There are things I ~need~ you to know incase I don't make it through the surgery" I pleaded with her to tell me now. The rest of her words keep a steady echo vibrating in my mind. "No Shanny, things like this are best said in person. It's my responsibility to tell you face to face." Secrets are best served fried. The south greases them and hands them to you with hospitality, that is assuming the tell you at all. Most secrets are silenced down there in the humidity. White lies and dirty laundry quickly drowned out by Southern belle accents and Jook-joint Blues. The elders you are taught to respect tuck the truth away in the large oak trees you play in as a child. They bury them in the fresh, sweet grass while you are distracted with running through the sprinklers in the thick summer air. The Bible belt is a dangerous place for those who made the choice to stop hiding. Please don't worry Mother. I promise you taught me well. I will not tell. I dread what you must tell me, but I know all to well how this works. You cannot take it to your grave, but I know I must promise to take it to mine. Mother, don't cry; you know I am coming to hear your confession. I forgive you. I have no choice but to forgive you. I told you that you raised a southern girl. It is safe with me. Let us have catfish for supper afterwards, we can pretend you never said anything.