An Ode to the South

*Prior to reading my poem, here is a little more contextual information about me:

My mother hails from Atlanta, Georgia; my father from the San Francisco Bay Area. I have footing on both coasts-- born in the peach state, but adolescence through my college years in California.

In a college essay i once wrote: “Trekking through the dry, crackling Arizona heat, dodging the spike-laden arms of Saguaro cactuses as they reach toward the sky, I’m reminded of my love for the desert. The way flames of red tear across the sky when the sun finally dips in the west. The overwhelming emptiness of the flat terrain, an ancient ocean bed. The revenge the clouds take as they make up for the lack of precipitation with incredible lightning storms. The sweet smell of the rain.”

This is all true. I do have a love and appreciation for the desert. 

However, the south has my heart.

An Ode to the South

I miss it so freakin' much. 

I miss the heavy, humid air. it’s sweet, saccharine smell.

The tall trees as they arch over the streets in a canopy, the road names carved into wooden signs, all uniquely southern and American like: “sugar mill road” and “wild turkey run”.

I miss the sudden summer showers, the cool water of the lake.

Even all the bugs, from large spiders to buzzing mosquitos.

The rolling green hills, turning blue as they go off in the distance. The red clay dirt.

The southern twang and general niceties and manners of all the folk.

The chittering cicadas at night and twittering birds early in the morning.

Vibrant greens, everywhere.

My family.

My beautiful, large, loud family that loves to cook and drink and chat and laugh.

I miss that feeling of knowing that this is the place I was born. This is the place I am FROM.

Maybe my ancestors hail from hundreds of different locations all over the world, but this is literally where I entered the world. Where I started.

Every time I leave, I feel this longing deep in my soul for at least a few days until it subsides.

Like my body misses its origin point. Like it knows “this is your place”. This is where you were made. This is familiar.

Maybe this is my true home? 

I don’t know if I willl ever find my way back there to live permanently.

If it will ever be the address where I tell people to send my mail, to visit.

Right now I am the mere visitor.

My license currently has California written across the top instead of Georgia. 

Maybe one day that will change.

But for now I am left with longing, a feeling I know all too well, one I have felt since I was 4 years old and made my initial move out of this corner of the continent. 

The lingering pain of pure missing