My father's favorite place is somewhere between Norman, Oklahoma and Corinth, Texas. The arbuckles. A granite quarry. Stretches and expanses of highway, carved through slabs and jaunts of wild and amorphous rocky crags. We could build a house on top of here, he says.
The mesquite trees vie for attention, gripping the bends and breaks of the crumbling structures, they stretch their limbs to the sky, oblivious to the thick and dripping heat. to the way the blue quivers and weaves in the sunlight. To the way the clouds roll and disappear.
This place, he says.
Makes me so happy.
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