Cry Until Memphis

For five years I've wondered what my life, our life would look like if I hadn't left. If I hadn't driven away, crying until Memphis. If I just stopped right there and said I'm home.

I have a hard time believing we'd be anything but together. Wasting away on quiet Saturday mornings on the balcony of Square Books, you, with an iced coffee in a mason jar in one hand, a book in the other, reading aloud as I lick the remains of our pastry breakfast from my sunburned lips.

I'd nearly doze to the bass of your familiar voice, the sun dancing on my crossed shins. You'd set your coffee down, rest one chilled palm on my warm leg making me jump awake from my near cat nap.

I don't know what you're reading, but it's my new favorite book.

As is the natural order, books are followed by thrifts and antiques. We are in dire need of nothing and we both know we'll leave empty handed, the only evidence, a few photos of a girl in a floppy easter hat.

The difference between old thrifting and today, however, is that instead of flying ahead of you, awaiting your slow molasses saunter to round the corner, you've slowed me down with you - your baseball mit hand dawrfing mine in a way I've only dreamed about. I'm a little more patient these days - but only slightly.

I'd still scowl at your need to walk every single isle at the grocery store "just in case", when we only need milk. I still grab the expensive brand while you do the math in your head to discover you'd have saved us 7 cents had I been a little more patient.

I'd still sick smack in the middle of the couch, but instead of flinching, you'd lean in and pull me closer to you, calm as a Mississippi sunset.

We'd both get a little drunk on the scent of cedar and flowers dacing between us and around us. But this time, we won't have to wonder where it's from.

Out on the porch, the shadow trees sit black against the cotton candy sky, as we rock back and forth on the porch swing you built with your own hands; my favorite kind of evening that makes me dream of another day exactly like this. The kind where to go home, means a slightly inconvenient commute up a few stairs; where the day ends blanketed by your accent, as you sit watchful over what is yours, what is mine, what is ours.

But the thing is, I cried until Memphis. And even once the tears stopped, I didn't; I kept heading west and you didn't stop me.