What is home, exactly? It’s a state of mind rather than one single place for me. It’s not Dallas, Fort Worth, Austin or any of the places I daydream about daily. It’s a feeling. But what does a feeling look like?

For me, it’s the highways between San Marcos and Huntsville. Between Fort Worth and Corpus Christi. New Braunfels and College Station. Abilene and Pittsburg. San Antonio and Oklahoma City. It’s the hay bales, cattle, horses and ramshackle barns lining the landscape. The trucks, Main streets and churches filling up the tiny towns between the gas stops and beer pickups. It’s the single headlights flooding a two-lane highway at 3 a.m. It’s the fields for miles, interrupted only by a single house and occasionally a cross. It’s the pine trees so prevalent it seems as if nothing else exists beyond the 20 feet on either side of the highway.

Home changes over time. Old pictures fade and new ones fill our memories. But these? These were all my first home.


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