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.