Johnny Cash makes me miss my grandparents.

Johnny Cash makes me wish they had never a-moved to Washington, DC. Makes me yearn for the experience of growing up in the south. Well, Virginia at least. I remember that Virginia. It was sun-spotted and honeysuckle flavored and I grass-stained my white dress. The guitar was always within reach and the parrot knew my dad’s name. They took pictures, but forgot the flash. Shadowy children in a dirty kitchen with an ancient old ma. Like day for night in the movies. Too dark, but still visible.

Johnny Cash makes me want to travel to an old place. A place that was more simple. Maybe I will be more simple. Johnny Cash makes me hate complicated people. Even me. So silly. So complicated. Too many parties, not enough real joy.

Johnny Cash makes me want to call my grandmother on the phone. Too bad she is there in body, but not in mind anymore. Do you know how many years I wasted not calling my grandmother on the phone? And now I can’t. Some people say I like old people too much. Johnny Cash makes me realize it is just guilt for not liking them enough.

Johnny Cash makes me miss an alternate me.