Lyrical Logic

I didn’t need to guess what she looked like. I’d known that red hair and that voice since I was a child watching the Reba show on a screen, looking for a version of “home” that actually felt safe. I’d seen her in the lights of a concert stage before, but this was different.

Last July, I traded the cornfields for the coast. 1,800 miles of anxiety fueled by 90s country and a 28th birthday I usually try to ignore. I didn’t drive across the mountains and a desert with the idea that I was going to finally get that hug I’d dreamed of my entire life. I didn’t drive across the mountains and the desert to hear her say my name. I drove across the mountains and through the desert to sit in the same space as the woman who raised me, even though she didn’t know she had.

I used to think my stories were unbelievable, until I sat in a studio in LA and realized that sometimes, the “Happy Place” is real. This is about the drive, the desert, and the moment the girl in the third row finally found her way home. Her way home to the voice and the smile and the wave that finally made her birthday a day she didn’t have to forget.

The miles flew by as
I chased the woman
behind the screen.
1,800 miles of anxiety
split up by the mountains
and off-roading in the desert.

I stood in the parking garage
convinced they were going to
tell me I was too late
even though I was
an hour early.

I shut off my phone.
I didn’t want to blow
this one moment on a day
I rarely claimed.

Under the studio lights
my eyes followed her
red hair.
It didn’t matter if she was
in the scene or not.
My eyes stayed on the woman
who always felt like home.

Then she turned from the desk.
Our eyes connected.
A raised hand. A smile. A wave.
To the woman in the third row
it was a silent “happy birthday.”
The 1,800 miles vanished.
The drive back didn’t matter.
My mama had seen me.
That was the only
birthday gift
I would ever need.