I never did learn to drive a stick-shift.
my friends (the real men among them)
give me shit about that.
(Okay, that hasn’t happened since high school,
actually. No one cares whether or not I can drive a stick.)
Shame grows up with the wheat.
It’s hard to sift.
My feminine soul. She’s always been
delicate. Sensitive.
We used to live up on a hill in Cedar Crest.
I drove my dad’s manual down it a couple times —
coasted neutral till I had to shift into gear
at the stop sign across the street from
Triangle Grocery, the hardware store and
Mountain Video (a mom-and-pop VHS
rental shop that put Blockbuster out of business).
The bottom of Sangre de Cristo sloped up.
I always ground the clutch trying not to roll back.
(God, it was the worst with a car riding your bumper).
One time, on tour, Chris Wilson gave me
the keys to his car so that Brandi and I could
drive to the grocery store, and I stalled out
in the middle of the intersection for
an entire round of lights.
Never told him about that.
Brandi — a real man — drove us back.
You know, I’m a sucker for nostalgia.
I don’t even long for the good old days, I just…
well, I like to remember. I miss a lot of
what’s happening in the moment.
I could give you myriad diagnoses for why, but
my god, maybe I’m finally just… a human.
Maybe all our problems belong.
I can’t drive a stick.
What a boring announcement, but
here I am, talking about it. Began
the whole spiel projecting criticisms
that literally do not exist, protecting
tender places, still sensitive, feeling like
maybe I wasn’t as cool as the other kids, or
like I disappointed my dad when I just
couldn’t switch gears fast enough.
Still can’t.
The melodrama.
It’s not anyone’s fault.
The shame grows up with the wheat.
Sometimes, you find a root.
More and more, you just
let it all live and quit trying
to make sense of it.
There’s nothing left to do but forgive.
Everyone.
Everything.
Mm yes this one is delicious.
Leviiiiii my goodness 😭