How much longer can I live east of the Mississippi? I’ve been contemplating that question recently. That simple vertical dividing line, that quick bridge over rushing water I take as I pass through St. Louis that seems to make all the difference. For me, it divides the United States into two sections: the United States of my childhood and the United States of my adulthood.
West is where I methodically hoisted the tents of my youth. Where Interstate travel is replaced with miles of highway that pass through small robust towns. The west is so big and open that it can take your breath away when you lie down on the grass. You feel like the sky is swallowing you in one big blue gulp. And you will gladly be swallowed, yes, please swallow me.
The East is where I came to terms with who I am, and who I might become. It’s where I embraced Southern culture with one hand, and pushed it away with the other. The South and I, we have an abusive relationship. I rejoice in the balmy winters, the buttery food, and temperamental afternoon storms. But I also cannot see the stars from my back lawn at night because we live in such close proximity to the rest of the world. The zoom of the interstate and the beeping of car alarms keeps me anxious. The beach is so littered and crowded with tourists that it seems a shame our greatest resource can offer no respite from the daily hum.
My sister text messaged me recently: “Where are you and Schuyler going to live?”
It took me a few hours to write her back. The truth and the fantasy are far divided—they are on the opposite sides of the river. 
Highway 20 just west of where I grew up.
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