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  • The one thing that made me come back was a deep longing. Grandma's house was painted red and white, which seems eccentric now but didn't then. Momma, second youngest of ten or eleven children (no one could quite remember which) said, "You remind me of Aunt Shirley. Always changing. You're a gypsy one day and a poet the next."
    I think of her sometimes when I'm a gypsy one day or a poet the next.
    I think of us all crowded on Grandma's red and white porch where family gathered each Sunday at 4 o'clock for cake and coffee. Where cousins played in cane patches and watched cars pass from high on the bluff when Highway 61 cut right through Grandpa's land. I think of all of them when I crave caffeine every day at 4 o'clock. I think of saying good bye and waving my head off looking out the window in the back seat of the daddy's car. I think of daddy holding the horn long and hard like a long hug goodbye. That deep down longing that never wanted to say goodbye.
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