If I could write a love letter to the place I love more than anywhere, it would sound a little like this.
Mississippi, you’re a wiry old bird, aren’t you?
I’ve lived in your state my entire life. I’d call it a love affair, really—we’ve broken up several times, and I’ve said that I’ve hated you in the heat of the night. I’ve wanted to get out so badly that I thought about transferring schools to some out-of-the-way, leaf-strewn place in Connecticut. Your antonym, out of pure spite, a chance to shed and change skins. But I’ve come back, time and time again, shame-faced and overwhelmed by your beauty, your understated charm. You’re like gravity—you release your natives to the wide world, but they are intrinsically marked by you, just the same. When we meet in another state or over the ocean, we’re constantly amazed by your pull, your warm broadness that extends past the crooked borders of your land.
Mississippi, you’re so pot-marked by your past. You’ve had it…
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