Now and then, I’m reminded of the unique wonder that is inherent to our living, loving, and journey through the number that becomes our days.

And while most travels are the same, others can vary based on age, our place in the world, and even the area where we are born to.

Just yesterday, I made the trip to see my mother, some thirty minutes down the road. Along the way, I passed a place I have overlooked hundreds of times, but this time was different. I noticed a cluster of trees and just as I passed, I realized there was a worn down path – a road (less traveled) that navigated between them, through them.

And just like that, I was at another place of my life. I was 18.

While I don’t for one minute think that ‘parking’ is unique to the south, I think that every place we find love is unique in some way – even if only unique to us (every kiss, the first, the sweetest ÷ the only).

In the south (or at least in my part of the South), we would never spend a Saturday night in the backseat of a car when the option of a blanket of clover beneath and stars above is so readily available.

could I tell you
the truth of this –
of secrets writ to skin
of nights
not left to injury or scar
the memory returning us
not so weary
not so far
to fields where clover blooms
beyond the stars

. . .