Back on the gravel road, the road I grew up on.  Oppressive heat, barely beaten back by the asthmatic old air conditioner in the double-wide I grew up in.  In which Mom and Dad still live.  With its uneven floors, and soft spots, feeling to hesitant feet a bit like a newborn’s head does to gentle fingers.  Wicker everywhere.  One well placed match and there’d be conflagration.  Heat hangs heavy, heavy.  I watch kittens play on the furniture.  Lucinda Williams sings in my head.  Home again.