There are places
where clouds draw tourists
and millions and millions of stars grace the night.
There are places
where you wake up to birds chirping
and the only traffic you hear
is the tractors churning up the earth.
There are places
where women grow their hair long
and men’s arms turn red
while hanging out of trucks
because a rolled down window
is the only air conditioning you’ll ever need.
There are places
where the dust is more polluting than the smog.
Places where
the tress out grow the buildings
and the buildings out grow you.
Places where
the summers go on and on
and the country meets the sky.
Places where
you know every face
and strangers yield their right of way.
Places where a neighbor is family
and an open field
is a child’s favorite toy.
Places where
you can smell nature
and feel the sun.
Places where
every road, house, park, street corner
has a memory.
Places where
strangers smile,
men bow their hats,
open doors,
pull out chairs,
and call their wives ‘mamma.’
There are places
where the night is peaceful and silent.
The night harbors animal conversations.
The night is dark.
There are places where the county fair is the main event
and your best friend
is the greatest celebrity you know.
There are places
where tight jeans
and cowboy hats are welcomed
and men work hard.
There are places
where no one’s talking about war
but gossip fills the void.
There are places
where small minds run rapid
and you think your mother may just suffocate you.
There are places
where the football team defines you
and you wear their colors proudly.
There are places
where your dreams are vast
and the land is wild.
And there are days
where I can’t help but smile
because there are places like this.
I call them small towns.
I wrote this poem in the summer on a pad of paper with a pencil. I didn’t have a laptop or a smart phone to write it another way. I was nineteen years old. I’m now thirty five. I came across it today and smiled the deep kind of knowing smile; the kind your mom (okay, it’s probably your grandma) smiles when you think you know something, but really, they’re the one who knows the something. That’s the smile I smiled when I read this today.
When I was nineteen, I had the most epic spring break trip home with my college best friend. We were going to school in the big city of San Diego and we were both from ‘small towns’ in Northern California. The truth is, she was from a legit small town, with a population near about 2000. I was from a ‘small town’ with a population near 50,000. Either way, we both had such a blast taking each other to our respective old stomping grounds. I wrote this poem after returning to the big city.
We both just felt it was such a special joy to be from a small town. Compared to San Diego- nothing personal San Diego, I love you- both of our towns were absolutely minuscule.
What’s funny is… I wrote this poem about the small town I would one day come to live in when I was thirty five. As I read through it, I felt chills working their way through my whole body. I don’t really remember feeling this way about my hometown when I wrote the poem, and most of it isn’t really an accurate depiction of that town- more just a general concept- but reading the words, I can’t help but feel that much more at home here knowing it was somewhere deep inside me all those years ago.
There really is something special about a small town… something comforting and expected and uniform… and the longer I’m here, the more I know it’s where we were always headed.
How funny is life?