When I die, I may not go to heaven
For the most part, I've left Texas behind.
It's been nearly five years since I've lived there. My hair no longer has it's own zip code. In fact, I haven't even picked up a bottle of hairspray in so long that I'm not even sure I'd know how to use it anymore. My Texas accent has been pretty much excised (aside from the times that I'm: (a) drinking; (b) talking to someone from home; or (c) really tired (that's tyyy-urd). A combination of (a), (b) and (c) is pretty hilarious. "Fixin'a" is no longer in my vocabulary as a perfectly good word/phrase to use. A coffee can with bacon drippings is not an acceptable addition to my kitchen. I rarely say "y'all" anymore. I realized that high school football is not actually a religion. I don't own a pair of Cowboy boots anymore. If someone is over and asks for a Coke, I now assume they actually mean Coca Cola - not Dr. Pepper or Sprite. I don't keep up with Texas politics anymore (it got too depressing for my bleeding liberal heart). I have nearly forgotten what real bar-b-que or mexican food tastes like. And while it would kill my father to hear it, I don't consider the Cowboys to be my team anymore.
But there is an inextricable part of me that will always be there. Yes, my family of course, but I mean something more - something about my heart that will always be a part of that place.
You can take the girl out of Texas, but you can't take Texas out of the girl.
I just realized it's bluebonnet season. The walls of my parent's hallway is covered in family photographs - in one of them there is a picture of us four girls - standing in a field of bluebonnets so wide it looked like we were in an ocean with tiny whitecapped waves. I was eighteen and a senior in college. It was one of the simultaneously happiest and saddest times in my life.
That day, I picked a bluebonnet (something every Texan will tell you is illegal - which it isn't - but we're ingrained with it from birth) and pressed it in a big heavy family bible given to my parents as a wedding gift. All my favorite mementos are tucked into that heavy white leather bound book - the only proof I have that my parents actually loved each other at one time. I later moved it into my journal. I haven't written in a long time, and I took it out to write the other day, mulling over memories from the past - laughing at the pathetic poetry, wincing at the rawness... I turned to the page where it was nestled and sighed as it crumbled into blue and green dust. I tried to describe it to someone today as similar to memories fading with time, to the point where you wonder if what you hold in your heart as true really could be.
On the side of my fridge is a closeup of a single bluebonnet. A simple reminder of who I am and where I come from ... and where a part of my heart will always be - no matter the emotional and physical distance.
Texas is as close as I've been.
It's been nearly five years since I've lived there. My hair no longer has it's own zip code. In fact, I haven't even picked up a bottle of hairspray in so long that I'm not even sure I'd know how to use it anymore. My Texas accent has been pretty much excised (aside from the times that I'm: (a) drinking; (b) talking to someone from home; or (c) really tired (that's tyyy-urd). A combination of (a), (b) and (c) is pretty hilarious. "Fixin'a" is no longer in my vocabulary as a perfectly good word/phrase to use. A coffee can with bacon drippings is not an acceptable addition to my kitchen. I rarely say "y'all" anymore. I realized that high school football is not actually a religion. I don't own a pair of Cowboy boots anymore. If someone is over and asks for a Coke, I now assume they actually mean Coca Cola - not Dr. Pepper or Sprite. I don't keep up with Texas politics anymore (it got too depressing for my bleeding liberal heart). I have nearly forgotten what real bar-b-que or mexican food tastes like. And while it would kill my father to hear it, I don't consider the Cowboys to be my team anymore.
But there is an inextricable part of me that will always be there. Yes, my family of course, but I mean something more - something about my heart that will always be a part of that place.
You can take the girl out of Texas, but you can't take Texas out of the girl.
I just realized it's bluebonnet season. The walls of my parent's hallway is covered in family photographs - in one of them there is a picture of us four girls - standing in a field of bluebonnets so wide it looked like we were in an ocean with tiny whitecapped waves. I was eighteen and a senior in college. It was one of the simultaneously happiest and saddest times in my life.
That day, I picked a bluebonnet (something every Texan will tell you is illegal - which it isn't - but we're ingrained with it from birth) and pressed it in a big heavy family bible given to my parents as a wedding gift. All my favorite mementos are tucked into that heavy white leather bound book - the only proof I have that my parents actually loved each other at one time. I later moved it into my journal. I haven't written in a long time, and I took it out to write the other day, mulling over memories from the past - laughing at the pathetic poetry, wincing at the rawness... I turned to the page where it was nestled and sighed as it crumbled into blue and green dust. I tried to describe it to someone today as similar to memories fading with time, to the point where you wonder if what you hold in your heart as true really could be.
On the side of my fridge is a closeup of a single bluebonnet. A simple reminder of who I am and where I come from ... and where a part of my heart will always be - no matter the emotional and physical distance.
Texas is as close as I've been.
posted by April at 6:04 PM
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