A Writing Assignment

I come from Big Sky country.

A place where the sky rolls out like a map with no edges, and you can't help but watch the clouds go about their day. 

I come from an unbroken line of partially broken women who hold up the sky with their bare hands and broad shoulders. 

Women who go to church to spill all the secrets that don't fit inside and don't want to be hidden. 

Women who go to their kitchens like they are going to stop (or start) a war. Casseroles for the grieving. Meat and potatoes for the overwhelmed and alone. Meringues and pies for celebration. Every dish a prayer. Every crock pot a loaded weapon.

I come from don't talk it about unless you can do something about it. 

I come from so many things you can't do nothing about. 

I also come from long grass and pine needles baking in the sun. From short autumns and long winters. From the inkiest of nights with the brightest of stars. From untamed rivers and a once small town that swells against the boundaries made by mountains and water and sky. 

I come from the longing that builds and builds and builds when you have to hold so many impossibly beautiful, fragile things in the same hands that have had to hold up a sky with no edges.