Ghost town travels, a steel-framed horse,
A lonely cowboy’s tune.
I ride these cold forgotten streets,
And find an old saloon.
The folks here say it’s haunted,
And I believe them, truth be told.
But I bet that place wouldn’t have the space,
For the ghosts that haunt my soul.
I made it back to Texas and I just don’t know how to put it any differently. The trip home was the same old garden variety misadventure that happens when one comes home from abroad. The return journey is always a bittersweet one for me, especially this time around. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had forgotten something behind. I checked my pockets, patting myself down like a lunatic, every time I walked through a door or onto a plane. I checked my bag, in every pocket, over and over again. I must have made certain that my passport was in my wallet a-thousand-and-one times, and all the while, that nagging little itch was there telling me that I’d left something important in Slovakia, something that I couldn’t live without. I landed in Austin and drove back to New Braunfels before sunset.
Please pardon the drama of all of this, but it didn’t dawn on me until I walked across the threshold of the front door of my house that I hadn’t really “come home”. I’d left “home” over there. That’s what I’d forgotten — a ginger-haired girl and a copper-colored dog. There really wasn’t much of a home without them to come home to.
I rode my bike around my pretty little town. Its charm was somehow different now, its beauty somewhat new. I saw everything through the eyes of the ones I longed to bring home to me, ones that had never laid eyes on a Texas town before. With those kinds of eyes, you notice so many strange and random details like the vibrant blues and greens and colors of nature and industry alike or the peculiar way that wood bleaches and weathers in the hot Texas sun. The trails and rugged landscapes sprawled out off the highways dotted with bluebonnets that I am going to explore with that dog. I felt anew the contrast of a scathing Texas heat with the brisk sting of cold spring waters in that swimming hole we are going to visit… What is home?
Home is the eyes of a ginger-haired girl,
That, with a smile, can change from brown to green.
Home is chasing sunsets with a copper-colored dog in a ravine.
Home’s where Johnny Cash is singing,
Or Frank Sinatra’s “Strangers in the Night”.
Home’s a fifteen-hour red-eye flight.
What is home?
Home’s a foreign language on a tongue influenced by plum brandy wine.
Home is hiking in the dark to watch the sun ascend horizon’s line.
Home is making new moon wishes, birthday unicorns, and pots of gold.
Home is where the heart is, so I’m told.
What is home?
Home’s an island in the sea where drunkards come to play.
Home’s a winding mountain road to a cobalt-blue tinged bay.
Home’s a smile of crooked teeth that holds my heart in sway.
Home, these days, is very far away.
What is home?
Home’s a scrap of paper in a wallet. Home’s a lullaby.
Home is howling at the moon at different times but under the same sky.
Home is waking in a bed and feeling her beside you where you lay.
Home will hold your heart while you’re away.
What is home?
Thanks for your indulgence. I’ve been picking that guitar up again and look forward to seeing you all very soon.