every stranger's face I see, reminds me that I long to be....

My nephew graduated high school this past weekend. So, the hubs and I packed up the Rover and navigated our way to Georgia; home of peaches, pecans, the Zac Brown band, Third Day, the coco-cola company, Gone With the Wind, the Big Chicken, Paula Dean, River Street, the world's largest aquarium, Stone Mountain, the Varsity, the Falcons, MLK, Delta, the AJC, and all of my loved ones.

the hardest part of going back home, is feeling like a stranger on the streets where you grew up. It's funny how everything looks different, but feels like your favorite old sweater, that still fits you perfectly despite the 15 lbs you've added on since you saw it last. ahhhh.... home.

I never feel like I have enough time. Like it's slipping through my fingers, quicker than sand, and with less impact. I can't stop time and cling tight to my loved ones, and it worries me. My dad looked ages older, and it scared me. In the back of my mind, is that voice, saying what I don't want to type, what I don't want to think about, but what I know to be true. We are fragile. We are a wave in the ocean. I'm reminded that I live too far away.

I couldn't soak up enough southern accent, southern hospitality, southern charm, and dear lord the southern cookin'. I miss the south. I adore my blue ridge mountains. I miss the comfort of seeing an old friend in the grocery store, grabbing lunch with my girlies, snuggling next to my momma, real sweet tea, hearing "y'all" and "lordy"...

I tried not to cry as we drove down my parents driveway on Sunday morning. I kept my arm out the window, waving long past the point where they couldn't see me anymore. I promised myself I would be a "big girl" and not sob like I normally do. The hubs knows (after four years) not to say anything right away, he just reaches for my hand and drives. I hate the drive back. It's too long and depressing; and every time I say "next time we're going to fly". But I couldn't bare to put my Chloe in cargo (she is, after all, the only baby I have).

Today, I was driving to work feeling rushed because I showered longer than I should have, and my hair was still damp and starting to get wavy from the quick blow dry I gave it. I was, to be honest, exceeding the limit pretty significantly and listening to the new Sex in the City soundtrack, when I came up on a long line of traffic in the right lane. The left lane was moving pretty steady, so I got over. It wasn't until I made it to the end of the line of traffic to my right, that I noticed a hearse. The long line of traffic was a funeral procession. And here I was, blaring I Am Woman (sung by the fab girls of SATC), crusin' past a funeral. I wanted to cry.

In the south, everybody pulls over for a funeral. I've seen colossal sized bikers get off of their motorcycles and remove their helmets to show respect for the deceased and I've seen police officers salute the hearse (at my own Poppi's funeral). I've seen people pull to the side of the road my entire life... and then I moved here. People here keep going on about their business, like they can't be bothered to show a little respect...Because they don't have time, because it does not fit into their schedule, or because it does not revolve around them enough. And I was keeping right up with them. I was driving right past with out so much as a tap on the break; singing I am Woman hear me roar.

I am ashamed.

Oh lord, please don't let me lose my roots. Please, please keep me a southern girl, who has manners, shows respect, and sips sweet tea.

am I losing me?