Remember when you were a kid and your first day back at school in the fall the teacher would ask you to write down what you did in the summer? I always hated that. I felt like I never did as exciting or interesting things as my classmates. Eventually, I came to realize that what was exciting for me might have been dead boring to them and vice versa. While I would have loved to visit the museums and zoos their parents took them to, they yawned their way through the telling of those trips but seemed intrigued by my stories of tubing down a lazy river, or being chased by a bull.
This summer, my Dear Husband humored me and took me on a trip. Yes, there were museums and zoos involved, but the part that made me crazy excited was when we visited Sweet Town.
Okay, okay, I know that Sweet Town isn’t real. I know I made it up out of my own fertile imagination. And yet… when we drew nearer to the place I’d placed it I felt my heart pounding in anticipation, as if I could pull up out front of Kit’s Mercantile and find Lucy Price behind the counter. Or sit in the shade of the tree by the bridge while Emma‘s goats called out from just down the road. Maybe I might spy Lorcan‘s huge house in the trees of the foothills.
I didn’t see any of those things, but I saw Sweet Town, just the same.
I saw it in the dry prairie grass blowing like a shifting living thing across the rolling hills. I saw it in the dark trees and distant mountains. I climbed up the hill and stood in the wind and looked out over the plains and no matter what anyone says, I was there. I was in Sweet Town that day. And it was glorious.