Emily Brisse

You said it was a twelve-house town. Did you call it town? No sé . You’ve been speaking in English and I’ve been attempting Spanish and there are details we’ve lost to effort, that we’ve grinned over, our hair flying around us in time to the bus’s bumps along the narrow road, the thick air coming in the open windows. “I grew up here, just around here. There were twelve houses and a soccer field. Very peaceful.” “ Paz ,” I say. You smile. “See that?” You’ve been pointing out the agricultural fields as we pass them, a serious job as they’re everywhere, on the right and the left, stretching for kilometers. Coffee. Plantains. Cassava. Hectares of pineapple. You described how volcanic ash has enriched the soil, how the area is flush with large ranches and small family fincas . As we’ve traveled, I’ve watched men with machetes at their hips, some slashing their silver blades in strong strokes mere meters from the road. “See that? Sugar cane.” “ Azúcar ,” I say. You smile again,...

And yes, they taste as good as they look. Yaaaow!

The other weekend I took a road trip to visit my grandma. To start, I drove straight west on Highway 7 for two hours, then southwest for another two. I hadn't made this particular trip by myself maybe ever, and for a while I lost myself in my college CDs, the open windows, the sunshine highlighting the tops of hills and the bellies of little crooked streams. We'd had days and days of rain, so the land was lush. It didn't take long, though, maybe an hour west of Minneapolis, before I was struck by the ubiquitous presence of farms. Grain, dairy, turkey--they spread out on each side of the highway, patchwork squares extending into the horizon. Flyover Country. I did not grow up on a farm.  My grandmother did, in Iowa. Two of my cousins did, in Pipestone. A few of my high school friends did: Elisha, Robyn, Mary Jo. But, no. What many easterners and westerners might think about the heartland--everyone tied somehow to a barn and a silo--isn't true, at least not true fo...

One way to spend a Saturday morning: Drive west until the rolling hills of Wright and Carver County flatten out, until every other turn left or right off the highway would be onto gravel, until the thought w hy not fills you up, flows into your fingers, convinces you to take the next turn. Stop the car. Step out. Feel the wet mud coating your shoes, the dew still heavy on the long grasses. Go meet those hulks of friends that smile back sleepily,  that are grateful to have survived the winter, too.  Discover that they are wrapped in thin wire.  That they are much taller than you'd imagined, from behind your window inside your car on the highway. Place your hands on them.  You are trespassing. But they are complicit, and say nothing to discourage you. Sing something .