There is a stoplight now in my hometown at the intersection of Highway 69 and 210. Progress, that stoplight. I slow my car down, impatient for the light to turn. I look over at the cemetery where my mother-in-law is buried. I did not know her well. But I think of her now. She grew up in this town. Was that same oak tree here? Was that same fence around the graves? There is a stoplight now on Highway 69 and Main over by the old doctor’s office. We have a new medical building now, on the other side of town. Progress, that stoplight. New lights, new houses, pop up one by one. Young couples with big ideas have moved to town, their lives unfolding. Flowers in planters and weather resistant rockers on their porches, and signs with rustic designs from Walmart that say Welcome or Home in cursive lettering. Bright flags in the colors of college football teams are stuck with spikes into pristine lawns, announcing who lives here by who they root for. Everyone is inside, Tvs humming.
These ponderings warm my heart. You capture the pace, the presence, the particulars of the place and the space.