I’m like that awkward spot where grass meets old sidewalk and they’re duking it out to see who gets those extra couple of inches.
Because I am the comforting country kitchen, the legacy of a recipe for coconut cream pie so thoroughly memorized that ingredients need not be measured. I am sweet tea and ooey-gooey butter cake and Lincoln Logs and the heavy family Bible on the coffee table that’s full of genealogy information. I am Christmas cards on the mantle, cowboy boots, fake flowers, and the American flag out front.
But I’m also sizzling hamburger patties on a scorching December day in Africa. I am mist over Wanale Mountain and equatorial sunburn and lousy ice cream dribbling down my chin because I’m about to die laughing at some inside joke. I am bare feet and malaria, slow border crossings and ignored zebra crossings and the Indian spices that somehow pervade everything around them. I am Bollywood, bad hip-hop beats, and sweaty camaraderie in the back of a pick-up truck.
“Mother, Father, always you wrestle inside me; always you will.”