People already know I’m a country girl, not a redneck, not a belle. I do happen on a sidewalk now and then; in fact, I don’t even have to touch the grass to get to my car now. Shortest distance between two points, straight down the middle I’m smart, would rather be in the grass singing a song to myself.
13 years ago, I moved away, to town, and now I visit the square and buy the tall boots I wanted. I drink the froufrou coffee and meet with my under-surface country friends. All along we listen for the music that haunts like the woods in winter, the sound books make when they’ve never been opened.
The mall makes me happy dizzy like a party. A lot of people. The perfume cards rubbed to wrists. I confess that I try on the shirts that show my tattoo. The dangle of silver at ears, clicking heels to tile to bass, I’m thinking the skinny boys at Abercrombie and Fitch need to pull their britches up and grow some hair.
But I’d rather be in the middle of your yard sale, looking at your grandma’s jewelry and gloves. I’d wear her hat over one ear and that one big clip-on on the other.
The dust in the long bookstore reminds me of pickups without AC. I think of taking out the trash with my daddy, making the haul up to the main road. I remember, too, taking out the scraps.
The country girls don’t have to be altogether unclassy, but they just won’t mind your trash. So much of it reminds her of bumpy rides and the dirty smell of sweet feed in a flatbed. Pothole straddler, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve bottomed out.
Tunic:: Forever 21
Black Legging Jeans:: GAP
Boots:: Steve Madden