My Sister Is A Place

My sister is a place.

My sister, Whitney, and I used to lie in bed and talk about going to Whitney, Texas, once we were old enough to drive ourselves around, and taking down all of the Whitney City Limit and Whitney Population signs, so we could hang them on our bedroom’s walls back home.

It was a journey and a crime that never happened.

Not in the way we planned it out, late into the night, under our bedspreads, in the deep darkness, while praying for a future that would never come.

My sister did, in the end, actually go to Whitney after she got her driver’s license.

She went with her boyfriend…a boyfriend who became her place, even though he, himself, possessed no town to speak of.

And, as I was not privy to their original plan, I cannot say, one way or the other, if their joint adventure was truly a success or not.

All I know is that, once they returned with their faces flushed from the novel excitement of doing something deemed criminal, all they had to show for their efforts was one Whitney City Limit sign.

It had taken all night and a great deal of effort, on both of their parts, to remove the singular sign from its appointed post and the necessary wrangling was evidenced by its marred appearance.

And the two of them did not even make an attempt to garner one of Whitney’s recently replaced signs of population.

Advances in signage had proven to make removal more difficult than two novices could face, much less attempt.

So my sister and her boyfriend simply decided to settle for the one Whitney City Limit sign and head on back home.

I did not go anywhere that night.

I stayed in the darkness, underneath my bedspread, and wondered when it might just be my turn to head on back home.

I am still waiting.

Now that I am older, there are times when, in the middle of the night, I will take a drive in the direction of Whitney, Texas.

I do not formulate any detailed plan.

I just drive.

And I also hope that, once I turn back, I, too, will feel like I am headed home.

But I am still waiting.

Don’t get me wrong.

I do not feel sorry for myself in any way at all.

After all, how many people can say that they have a sister that is a place?

And, even though the place does not feel like home any more than my bedspread ever has, it is still a nice place to visit.

Whitney actually has a park with a commendable fishing lake and some of the most beautiful scenery Texas has to offer.

I have even heard that Whitney is a prime location for watching the sun rise.

But I am still waiting for that experience too.

And, while pondering such a potential moment in my life, I find myself wondering if such a gloriously bright show of nature just might make the place feel like home…a home for my self at long last.

No way to know for sure, either way, I suppose.

Yet, the mere possibility of a new day continues to convince me that home is worth all the waiting.

All of the infernal waiting.

Home simply must be worth all of the time I am spending.

I dearly love places.

Well, most of the time I love places.

But, then again, hell is a place too.

A place where the waiting is endless.

Hell is an Eternity With No Place To Go.

An eternity where there is an abundance of houses for ever-growing populations, but without any real homes to speak of.

I seek a true home.

A true home is my own definition of heaven.

I actually think a true home is much more likely to be a person, rather than a place.

Therefore, I am still waiting.

For home.

To draw me.

A map.

To a place I will wait for as long as it takes.

My waiting may not be graceful.

But I am very good at it.

None.  The Less.

As I practice long and hard because I intend to prove, beyond any shadow of any doubt, that

My True Home,

although as yet Unseen,

rests alongside

My Truest Heart.

And my words about home will sound overly-sentimental to some, no doubt,

But why should they not Be So?

Home is a place in the heart,

After All.

So, why should I not label my own wounded heart?

A Passage.

A Trail.

Not Broken.

I wonder…

Perhaps a wounded heart is exactly what is needed to mend a wounded home.

Anything Is Possible.

I suppose.

And so I wait.

For home.

Expecting home’s arrival.

Around every single bend.

AND I AM. 

STILL. 

WAITING.

{/b}