the same hills
I was looking at the picture of Indiana today. You know, and I guess I saw something that I hadn’t noticed before. I saw how the southern border is the connecting part to Kentucky—that ambling Ohio river that eats through the hills, licks against the banks. But that border, when I see it representing Indiana, gives me a kind of sickness for home. Whenever I used to see the figure of that border it was Kentucky to me and it still is but I’m seeing it from the other side. Like I’m the image in the mirror looking back. I guess it must be normal to feel the crazy need to strike out and leave things behind right alongside of an ache to be home—to see the sun sink below the same hills year after year.
