Barbara Crooker Corpus Christi I'm at the foot of the map, in deep south Texas, and the sky here is enormous. We're just tiny specks at the bottom of a huge bowl of light. I think I might see heaven if I squint hard enough. On both sides of the road, flat brown fields of newly turned earth stretch to the horizon, as far away from Pennsylvania's blue shale hills as I can imagine. Deep in my heart, I'm missing you, but I can also imagine another life, the one where I'd stay here, buy a small brick house under the live oaks, learn to love heat and humidity. Each morning I'd go to work driving over a silver bridge delicate as a bracelet, the pale blues and greens of the Gulf on either side like liquid jewels, and then in the evening, the black scroll of night would unroll, shot through with stars, like a player piano in a honky-tonk. I could unfold a lawn chair, tip it back against a tree, and crack open a Lone Star, let its cold amber roll down my throat, let icy beads of water drip on my chest and arms. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I might start to remember that someone is missing, like a scrap of music you've heard on the radio, but can't recall the name of the song. And even though it doesn't fit, I'd shrug into the hot Texas night as if it were a serape; wear it like another skin.

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