dispatch #2 - the blues highway
i came down 61 with no plan but the road. ohio to new orleans. through the delta. past bent trees and half-lit diners. hunting the old ghosts. not the scary kind. the kind that hum under your breath when the car goes quiet.
i stopped in bentonia. the blue front café sat squat and waiting. sky low and gray. i didn’t go in. just stood outside and watched the door. took a picture. kicked at the gravel. thought about skip james and that sound of his like something torn loose and still bleeding. later i found his marker. wind talking in the trees behind it.
robert johnson’s grave was mud-slick and littered with offerings. bottles. flowers. a folded bill or two. a few guitar picks. i didn’t add anything. just stood there and let the silence work on me.
the south’s a strange thing. people call you sugar and honey child. they say yes ma’am and no ma’am. they hold the door open and speak the lord’s name like he might walk in any minute. there’s something alive here. some stubborn ache that won’t die.
evil’s alive too. you still lock your doors. still glance over your shoulder when you gas up after dark. the poverty is deep. you feel it in the bones of the towns. but the soul’s deeper.
some roads take you through.
some roads take you back.
