You're sitting on your grandmother's porch
Eating watermelon
Spitting out seeds
While grandpa is reading the Sunday paper
You feel a stillness, a peacefulness
to the rolling earth around you
and you understand
You'll never be in that exact moment again
The South has a way of holding your heart in a way you wouldn't know
Always wanting to leave
But when you actually do,
You miss it more than you could even miss a person
It's the stigma of home