Amarillo by mornin’, up from San Antone,
He sang in an excruciatingly dramatic southern drawl that always made me laugh.
Everything that I got, is just what I got on.
He cocked his head playfully towards me as his fingers drummed on the wheel.
Resting my feet on the dashboard I pulled my sunglasses down; flashin’ him a look of playful annoyance.
When that sun is high in that Texas sky, I’ll be buckin’ at the county fair, we sang in unison with our bags packed in the trunk. I watched as we drove through tunnels, over bridges, and across state lines.
We knew there was someplace better for us. There had to be.
And as day slowly crept towards night, we watched the earth flatten from skyscrapers, like giants in the air, to the flat-earth, cattle-crawling land of tornado alley,
Amarillo by mornin’
and finally to the red rocks out west.
Amarillo I’ll be there
With a year gone and winter approachin’ he danced with me every night despite the weariness in his eyes and the callouses that plagued his hands, he turned on the old radio and held me close.
They took my saddle in Houston, broke my leg in Santa Fe.
But one night, instead of dancin’, he took me on a drive to “see the stars.”
Smellin’ the scent of stale whiskey and tobacco on his breath, he led me to the old Volkswagen in the garage and drove me forty-five minutes North.
Lost my wife and a girlfriend somewhere along the way. But I’ll be lookin’ for eight, when they pull that gate.
As he pulled the car to the side of the road, I watched as weariness turned to anger, and the callouses on his soft hands morphed into fists.
He came round to my side and ripped me from my seat.
And I hope that Judge ain’t blind.
I felt my body plunge towards the cold earth.
Rock in hand, I felt a white-hot searing pain expunge from my temple
Amarillo by mornin’
Feeling the warm blood from my head trickle down my face, everything went black.
Even the stars.
With a sudden gasp, my eyes lurch open as my deterioratin’ vision desperately tries to adjust. A sharp jolt of pain fully awakens my senses.
Sitting up, I lock eyes with the vulture; plunging its beak into the bloody wound on my thigh. I beg for it to stop.
Bendin’ my skull back to see the stars, I feel the slight patter of rain hitting my bloodied face and burying the sins of whatever happened that I can’t seem to remember deep into the ground.
A light in the distance emerges, wailin’ for help as the figure comes closer and scoops me up. He lays me down in the backseat, and as we drive off I see his thumbs drummin’ the wheel–
Amarillo by mornin’ up from San Antone, Everything that I got is just what I got on.
Written by Madeleine Kania
Edited by Julia Brummell
Graphic by Emily Hudak
