Nine years ago we loaded a car, packed a nervous — some would call neurotic– dog in the back, and set off to the frozen Midwest. Texas with its long nights at the pool, terrible mosquitos, and many many Hispanic radio stations faded into my past. Umpapa music, beer and bratwurst, and -20° winters became my life.
The music, the food, even my accent was left behind almost as soon as the trunk to our mini-van snapped shut. I denied my southerness and embraced my new Mid-western life. This was a mistake.
Texas is good for your soul.
On my table lies a book, and there it has lain all winter. At that time my mind only had one track: to spend the least amount of time outside of my bed. The meals were quick and inhaled more than eaten. One quick bite and I ran back and once again kindled a hearth within my sheets.
And still the dusty blue jacket remained untouched as I questioned the purpose of this blog, the futility of self-expression, and the apathy of readers in this god-forsaken city of shut-down metros, 7ft snow piles, and winds that seemed to increase in velocity at every street corner. It lay there calling me. My own steadfast tin-soldier; it knew that someday its time would come.
And then one day, my ride home was not in darkness. The flowers were blooming and so too I returned to life. And as I walked freely around my house my eyes dropped on my steadfast soldier who had lain all winter waiting for me.