I love you and your green rolling hills, your miles and miles of nothing but cornfields, your cinematic thunderstorms (well, I love them less, for reasons I'll get to), and how your dotted with quaint farmhouses and little towns with their main streets and beautiful parks. I come to you and I feel at home.
But we have to talk. I don't know that I have the intestinal fortitude for you any more. My mouth is more eager than my stomach, in other words. Sure, I want to eat my way through you, as a state, but I'm not really sure I should. Sure, The pork chops and mashed potatoes, and pork tenderloin sandwiches the size of my head seemed like a good idea as I was eating them, but apparently my large and small intestines completely disagreed. Or maybe it was the strawberry rhubarb cobbler, the triple berry pie or strawberry crumble followed by a brownie that made my digestive system revolt, I'm not sure which, but something did not sit well with me.
We've got to figure this out, Iowa, if I'm to come back.
To the kid with crutches and the broken foot at my aunt's wake;
I think I love you a little bit. If I was 11, I'd be fawning all over you. You were cuter and sweeter than I knew what to do with. Also, stop breaking your legs before summer starts! Three broken legs over three summers is no way to spend your childhood. Get off the motorbikes and into the pool. Also, you have my permission to smack your sister with your crutch (not hard. Geez, I'm not a monster) every time she tries to steal your crutches. That just ain't right.
Thanks for the moment;
Dear my cousin the chiropractor;
Thanks for the adjustment. Although we may have to talk about your technique a little bit. You're a little bit like the Swedish Mafia, efficient but deadly. Not that I'm complaining because my hips hurt a little less (my headache still hasn't eased up, but that's another letter for a different day), but ease up just a tad. Not much, but just a tad.
Dear Strawberry Rhubarb Cobbler;
If it would be possible for me to marry a food, you'd be my partner for life, regardless of my intestinal fortitude. But now that a big chunk of DOMA has been dumped, who knows, maybe I will. You'd have to brother husband it with my husband, but I'm sure we can arrange something. I'd have to add your cousin, strawberry rhubarb pie, which would get really tricky, but I don't care. If this loving is wrong, I don't want to be right.
With my deepest love and respect;
Dear the lightning storm that lasted all freaking night;
Don't get me wrong, I got nothing against you. When I was a young child, I spent hours watching you roll through town. (Hey don't knock my childhood. When you knock the power out, what choice do I have?) But when my cousin's room has an uncovered archway with which you decide to blast a laser light show into at 3:00 in the freaking morning, and I can't get back to sleep because suddenly the entirety of Pink Floyd's the wall is playing in my head, you and I are going to have a problem. So cut it out you noisy, bright bastard. Some of us are trying to sleep.
Shut up and let me sleep;
Dear My Aunt's garden;
I am so jealous of you I can't stand it. Nothing but rows and rows of ripened strawberries in you and I can't get my strawberry bushes to grow but two strawberries and they are picked over by bugs? I'm so angry I can't stand it. But the strawberries are just the tip of the iceberg. Rhubarb and snap peas, and melons and green beans and corn and god knows what else just abound. I walk through you and I feel utterly at peace. Heh, I spelled peach right then. I would love to be utterly at peach. Sadly, there were know peaches that were ripe. Maybe next time.
The Bloody Munchkin
The BM (heh. Because you know I'm The BM, but the BMs that are moving through my system are killing me. It works on so many levels)