Wrapped Up

It is so easy to be here, the northern Midwest. The place is like a an old pair of jeans that has taken on my shape and feels just right. I relax into the language of the place, the values, the buildings, the rusty cars, the polite, blonde barista, the culture. Not surprisingly, a big part of that is how white it is. Affluent too. Clean and mowed and tidy. It's home, I have to say. I could just snuggle down into the comfort of it and sleep for years, decades maybe. I'd likely put on some weight and get a much bigger vehicle. I fit into the stew from which I emerged long ago, dripping with, and imprinted by, my moment, the land, the smells, the colors. Even the flowers comfort me, familiar friends who wave at me in the breeze as I pass. Might as well just roll into the arms of all that makes this place home more than any other, and let it fill me, take me over. It feels sweet to go under, and I let go the need to push further into something other than here. I have grown tired, so tired. This quilt I wrap myself in quiets the coming storm, the one that you can hear deep in the ground, a distant, low thunder.