Sweet Grit

Like syrup coming off of a maple tree.

Now say that again, slowly and with a bit of twang:

Like syrup coming off of a maple tree.

I heard these words come off the tongue of a southern man caught in northern country.

I heard in his voice a sweet nostalgia for a place he loved.

I don’t think it was the land, per say, but it WAS the place.

And it wasn’t that he said he missed the place, but in his voice was a longing; sweet and real.

I hope my voice tells of the things that I love. I hope that kind of life grows in me as I age.

I hope it comes off my tongue as wonderfully as it did his.

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