on the fleeting scent of americana.

‘why do you keep coming back here?’ they sat up on a hill outside town and watched as the sun went down. a beer hung between his thumb and forefinger with arms draped over his knees. ‘I guess it’s on the way?’ and took a long sip. ‘the way where?’ she laughed and asked him to open hers. using some leverage from a lighter he popped it off. ‘I dunno, the loop, the figure eight of my favourites, it had been a couple months, felt like seeing you’ laughing and gently massaging her neck with his free hand. ‘ya, but when are you gonna stop drifting, head back to the coast, settle down?’ she smiled, but was serious. ‘I dunno really, out here is different, out there is too concerned with everything, not enough honesty or substance’ he looked out over flatlands as the glow faded ‘I drive around here and everyone has a story, a real one, been in trouble, committed to a life I don’t understand, bounced around maybe, the cares are different, community is tighter. it’s the little stuff, neon signs, broken down cars, dingy pubs. it’s the Americana, the remnants of days past, days I wish I saw. those signs remind me of opportunity, about promise, they signify something you don’t find in the future we built out there. I like the dusty roads, beaten down truck stops. like watching the decay of that dream we used to have, seeing the resiliency of folks trying to provide, and love, and live. I see a lot of superficial at home. feel like the story starts out here, somewhere like this’ he smiled at her, she smiled back, and then looked away, for her this was home, for him it was an experience. guess it all was, really, either way.