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The porch swing has a gentle creak to it, it cuts over the steady lull of cicadas and rolling trains in the distance. The trees are turning, but autumn in the South is warm, humid, it reminds you of late nights in Alabama and how thick the vines would grow along the road. You're not sure where you thought you were going then, on that long trek across the country, but it's even harder to say if you made it there. The smiles of strangers are quick to come, their eyes inviting and easy. You hear the lilt in your voice return to mirror theirs, feel your cold New York exterior relax against their manners.

You remember how you love to travel. How you love to feel a different soil beneath your feet and another air inside your lungs. There is somewhere else you've meant to be. You forget, sometimes, but the Somewhere Else does not.

It waits for you, quietly.

But it will not wait, forever.