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my first memory is of light- the brightness of light- light all around.

[georgia o'keeffe]

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Today I have Texas on my mind. I'm thinking about that dimly lit Mexican food restaurant, twinkling lights, sweaty martini glasses, tan legs and long shorts. I'm thinking about shoulder freckles and the way the heat pushes through the glass of the window, the land and sky meeting in these sheer flat planes, the way the wind roars because there's nothing to break its fall.

I'm thinking about how West Texas has loneliness nailed, has it down to an art. How it makes this longing feel so seductive, makes it fill your empty places like water, calls you to stand and stare at the middle place for long minutes while your spirit rolls inside you. I think about the oil derricks diving down and rising again and again, like prehistoric monsters locked in spontaneous worship, the way the ground is so hard and the sun is so bright and the water is precious like blood.

I'm remembering the rain, the way you drive outside the city and watch it fall closer and closer to you, mile by mile. I remember its intoxicating musk, the way we rush around to get things done before it comes, like we're putting the finishing touches on an impromptu party late at night. Driving out to my grandparent's farm and watching the ripples on the surface of the water tanks made me feel like the land was filthy rich, Eden again, my own secret garden. It would be gone so fast, like a paycheck to a drunk man, and watching the waves reflect the sky filled me with mixed love and panic.

This is what I'm thinking about today. The smell of crisp fried shrimp against lyrical snatches of Spanish, straight long roads and mourning wind, the sharp scent of sage and wool. The sun bleaching my hair white like cattle bones, quiet under every shade of blue.