Texas Calling
She stands here in the sweltering heat.
It's 90 degrees, which is hot in this corner of the world.
She complains about the heat, yet she feels the strange urge to fly South,
To a place where the sun beats harder and temperatures average 110.
She feels the sweat dripping over her brow, her closed lids, down her arms, her back,
And it reminds her of the rain which usually covers these parts.
She longs for the rain, for it's not a bad thing.
It's home.
And home isn't such a bad place, either.
It is home, after all.
But she can't shake this desire to travel to a warmer, drier place
Where all the girls are pretty Southern belles, destined to marry strong, hardworking cowboys;
Where lazy afternoons are spent sipping tea and taking long walks through fields of lilacs;
Where Friday nights are spent catching fireflies and holding hands beneath the purple stars.
She pictures this place, and she can see herself living there.
Living and loving, building and growing, where the orange rocks lay flat for miles under a blue sky.
But then she forces herself awake, and she knows it's a dream, this idealized version of the Lone Star state.
It's a dream.
And she's had dreams like this before.
So how does she know if it's the right dream, a dream worth chasing?
So she holds on, and she clings to the three things that make her: God, horses, and freedom.
She closes her eyes once more, opens her mouth, and drinks in the cold, hard rain, savoring every drop of her current life.
And she's listening, silently waiting for Texas calling.
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