Approaching the Georgia line, memory downshifts, rolling into the past. Once the anticipation of home enmeshed with my confliction, confusion and fear. Home always exists here, but life has driven off to elsewhere.
The fields are dry. Red clay’s dust rises like smoke leaving a ruddy haze in the rearview. Behind the cab, the past drifts, comes apart.
Choices and decisions, He made us as we are meant to be, all in His image. You agree, within limits, and the gulf buries deep, stretches wide. Like a ghost faded through time, you appear ephemeral within this daydream, judgments seeking forgiveness.
Photo is copyright by Neal Wellons.
Daily Post prompt. (100 words)