So I Am Such a Cliche . . .
. . . a small town girl determined to leave her small town and never look back . . .
somehow finds herself back in her small town where she meets a small town boy who's just passing through,
the summer solstice, he promises to take her away from their small town . . .
so they have a small town wedding and begin a small town life,
but just for now,
and have small town babies and begin a small town family . . .
still dreaming far-away dreams and reading books and pointing at maps and stopping to gaze across fields at the horizon . . .
and some days these small town parents look at each other over the small heads of their children and marvel that they're still here, all these years and still dreaming . . . and he reads Russian at night and she peels stone mangos and they swap stories about trains.
But other days they drive through the green hills and say well it is so beautiful here . . . and some summer evenings they sit outside with their friends and drink wine from grapes grown just over the hill, and they talk about small town things . . .
and they wonder if small isn't just a label after all; what does that mean but a zip code, a geographical location . . . New York or Moscow or Sugarcreek . . . all made up of me and you and our neighbor, all small small towns doing our own smallish things . . .
So another summer solstice and I'm watching these same fireworks on the same horizon, thinking about things so stunning and bright and big, how they once seemed so close that I believed I could reach up and carry them home in my shirt,
any color I'd like.