Sweet Home, Oregon. I have never lived there. It’s sweet to me only in the tenderness I see in my father when my mother drives. No, take a detour. This is this, this is that. This used to be yae big, it was larger in my youth.
One year ago we endeavoured to find a swimming hole. No. Not a swimming hole, but the swimming hole. We drove farther than one small town should have been able to take us, tasting dust through our windows the whole way. Because we are who we are, and because who we are is a series of endearing traditions, we pointed out every horse we saw by expressing childlike glee and babbling in our old baby words. It was a good time.
At the far end of our trip we were turned away disappointed. Because young minds decay faster, my father was unable to pick his out of the plethora of holes. But it was a good time.
This year we didn’t even try. We satisfied our selves with the house he grew up in, and a box of his father’s 45s.
Sometimes the way he talks, I feel that his home was less than sweet. So many people in our family have the disposition he has. Contented bitterness, speaking fondly of hard times. But when my mother drives, I know he loves that town.
