3 Cigarettes in an Ashtray

Patsy Cline’s, Three cigarettes in an ashtray, is playing on my way home from The Hill. I laughed out loud to myself as this song began to play, thinking of how sobby and gritty her songs are and how sad and excitedly she sings them. I am back in St.Louis, it is a new-old town for me. I raced other joggers today in Forest Park, amazed that the trail was cleared in our snowy winter. Later getting a pint, or two, with a dear childhood friend, I felt the peace that always sweeps over me driving into the heart of a city with the cityscape reminding us that we are home, safe. The brick city houses, full of windows, with steep, short front yards are like my family, they have been there since my beginning and promise to offer comfort and protection as I, like the city, grow and change.
Yet no longer are we kids. We act like grown-ups, knowing when we should go home and looking forward to a fresh, productive morning. Many friends are moving out of my memory dream of my life as a St.Louisan, with kids, mortgages, bedtimes, yet this city comforts me, even as I drive Frida, my trusty, funky, metal companion, down a quiet Clayton Rd, knowing how to get anywhere by heading North, South, East, West.
I am in my nest, a big, beautiful brick home behind Tilles Park, welcomed by the people who knew me when I learned how to navigate ice-covered turnpikes and realized just how important it is to stay in touch. I hear Saturday Night Live is on in the living room downstairs, I am home.