Gold Beneath Rows of Corn in Southern Ohio
I went to the doctor, and they couldn’t figure out a diagnosis for my rusted joints. I wake up every day stretching and pulling and reaching my arms above my head, around my back, but nothing can relieve the pain. That was until I took a trip with my college friends back home to Ohio. With each long mile the pain grew to an ache, then I saw the sign for St. Clairsville, and it went away completely. I thought of my grandma’s girlhood and the 2 hours we had left before I was hugging my sister, my mom, and my dad. My friends didn’t have much to say about the drive, which was absolutely expected due to the four hours of corn fields and religious billboards, but I sat up front reliving every terrible thing I ever said about my state.
I moved away from home four years ago, a new adventure, my first year of college in a new state. I believed this was what my life was supposed to be. The longer I stayed in the Georgia heat, juggling city crowds, waiting at cross walks, paying too much money for a small coffee I could have made at home, I started to realize everything I thought was fitting into place was completely wrong. There’s gold hidden beneath the rows of corn in southern Ohio, and the insects sing louder than car backtalk and when my grandpa passed away, I wasn’t there. Guilt and jealousy boil in my stomach when I see my sister and mom shopping, or when my dad sends pictures of the sunset from their campground. My last year of college was spent drowning in homesickness for a place I spent years hating. I would give everything to be sleeping in my parents’ RV they bought after selling my childhood home. It has a kitchen and couches
and lots of little beds, so we’re sleeping like peas in a pod, but at least I would know that when I wake in the morning, I would hear my mom making her first cup of coffee.
I’ve recently learned that no matter how hard I try to push aside the thoughts of fleeing my college, they always show up in some way or another. I’m a sculptor and painter, so I should be working on assignments for my classes but here I am writing. Anyways, I sculpt furniture from my childhood home like the lampshade from our old playroom or the chest at the foot of my parent's bed, anything that could make my failing organs kickstart. I never really saw myself making it big, not as an artist at least. The only thing on my mind was how much longer it was until I went home. There are strings attached to the tips of my fingers; my sister has them too. They’regreen and shiny like blades of grass and when she pulls, I can feel it 664 miles away.
When I return, everything will be the same. My mom will be waiting for a hug and so will my dad. My sister will meet me outside of her house and she’ll squeeze me so tight that my heart feels like it will slide up my throat. The dog may be chunkier, but still sweet as always. We’ll eat the same food and talk about the same things. We’ll drink and I’ll confess how much I regret leaving. Everything will be the same, except maybe it won’t be.Although everything that could have gone wrong the day I left Ohio, went wrong, I can’t help but think that maybe it’s because my over empathetic pulsing heart would sink into my lungs and suffocate me if I stayed. So, I’llsay goodbye and cry for ten hours during the drive back to my college apartment, but I know, and believe me, everything will stay the same.