i roll the windows down, just a little. the cool breeze tousles my clean hair across my clean face. the soft, bright morning light throws shadows across the highway. how did i just now notice the layers of limestone that line the ozark roads? home. i remember writing about this sweatshirt. it was my dad's. i remember putting my hair up and my pencil down and hearing john mayer playing downstairs. i remember feeling safe at that desk. i remember feeling safe in that notebook. those notebooks. i remember feeling at home there, in between the lines on the pages. i remember writing to cope, to heal, to breathe. i remember those feelings, and i'm starting to feel them again. i could get lost here. i feel safe here. i put that sweatshirt back on, and i got my laptop back out. it's been a while. i wouldn't mind being transported back home. back to that little bedroom with that little desk and that little notebook. i wouldn't mind heading back there, even just for a minute. those memories feel warm, even though they were hard and cold and confusing at the time. she says it's morning now, it's brighter now. and she's not wrong. it might be a new me, a different me, but the old's still in there. she's still in there, and she's glad to be back.
i felt capable this morning. i put on my levi's denim jacket and my dad taught me how to air up my tires at the little a store. i felt capable this morning.