Tuesday, April 13


So I wish life was as easy as a Spring day. Sadly, mine is not. Now, do I absolutely LOVE my life? Yes. Do I wish it was easier? Not really, I just wish I had about three extra hours in the day and more energy. But as the French say, c'est la vie. (It's just life). There isn't anything exciting around here to report except, work, work, work all day long!

I was fortunate enough to be a part of a poetry reading in my American Literature class last Tuesday. It's very rare that inspiration and a warm-ness wash over you while sitting inside a classroom on a wonderful Spring day. But hearing some of Ms. Andrea Barton's poems did that for me. I just sometimes forget to stop and smell the roses I guess. Well, this is her poem "Postcards" I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

I have to find a different space. I think the way that I will hurt you back
is to go to every city that makes postcards of itself and send you one with the directive,
“Wish you were here.”

I won’t stay anywhere for very long—stop at a gas station for a postcard or two,
a state-shaped magnet, diet coke and cheese crackers.

Every familiarity will change in proportion to my distance,
will mark that I am opening my car door in the elsewhere of corn fields
and distressed billboards until I recognize nothing in the foreign faces.

I will drive with purpose. I will drive in a way that throws up dust
or pothole debris, the wet muck sopping against my undercarriage.

When I am tired of driving, I will tell my friends stories that have nothing to do with you:
of how I slept at a rest area just past the bridge between Memphis and Arkansas
or met a couple in Arlington who made soaps for a living.

I will tell them how the accents became thicker, more difficult to understand,
how I rose to the occasion in a chess match with a farmer named Temple.

I will pray every day for people on the interstate with somewhere to get to,
will love them for being strangers.

And I will tell friends later if they ask, that I am wonderful—that I have been every place—
that I have learned to interpret loss and how it is always the same:
an empty postcard of a solitary windmill that stutters on an unused field.

Andrea Barton

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