I used to argue against the South, against its heat, its noise, its way of holding me closer than I ever asked to be held. I pushed back at the humidity that clung to my skin, the slow‑moving days that felt like they were daring me to dream bigger, the voices that carried across yards like they had a right to my private thoughts. I thought leaving would prove something — that I was larger than the land that raised me, sharper than its softness, stronger than its pull.
But time has taught me differently.
Time has a way of loosening the fists you didn’t know you were making. And with distance, the memories come back sweeter than they were: the smell of cut grass after a summer rain, the porch lights flicking on at dusk, the hum of cicadas rising like a choir in the trees. I remember the way the Delta sky bruised purple before a storm, the way the air tasted like heat and honeysuckle, the way neighbors waved from their driveways like they’d been waiting on you.
I see it all more clearly now — the patience, the familiarity, the mercy woven into every ordinary day. The air wasn’t heavy; it was protective. The noise wasn’t chaos; it was belonging. And the porch‑light evenings I once shrugged off have become the very thing I ache for when the night gets too still, reminding me that sometimes the place you tried hardest to outrun is the one that never stopped waiting for you.
© 2026 Barney Jaime Pearson. All rights Reserved.
Leave a Reply