It occurred to me this afternoon that, as of this month, I’ve been back in Nashville for seven years. That’s just six months shy of my time in Memphis. I still get pangs of homesickness for Memphis, and the friends I left there. I suspect I always will.
Things have changed so much in my life since arriving in 2012. It hasn’t been easy, but it’s been absolutely for the best. I’m so grateful.
My tribe here is strong. Our kids are growing up together and we’re getting older. Every few years, it seems like another of us returns to the 615 to reintegrate. It’s good. It feels right.
I’m not convinced that some day Richard and I won’t get the hell away from here and take refuge on a hill somewhere with a big yard that’s far enough away from the interstate that we can’t hear a dull roar at all hours. Maybe we’ll post up on a mountain and try to sell crafts to tourists and hikers who’ve gotten lost. Doesn’t that sound better than spending an hour in your car, trying to get three miles down the road?
It’s been bonkers watching this place grow so quickly. Not just watching, but being in the thick of it. The downtown tourism industrial complex is a monster best avoided when possible lest you find yourself on Broadway in a four-way crash involving a mobile hot tub, golf cart made out of neon lights, triple-decker bus advertising Ray Stevens’ latest minstrel show, and a novelty Popemobile for bachelorettes.
You think I’m kidding. (I’m kidding … sort of.)
Alas, I work downtown, so it’s not exactly possible to stay on the outskirts of the madness. I dip my toe in it daily, and think This place is too big for its britches.
But it’s home now. It’s the place my husband grew up and the only home my son will remember. It’s where stories come to me as I daydream and where I sit in the sunshine and make things.
So. Those britches are mine to mend too.
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