The unique tone of my voice comes from the countryside — the West Texas plains, the harshness, the wind. It is the same southern cheery dialect of my aunts. Their voices are buoyant and animated and refined by decades of singing a capella harmonies in country churches.

But the sadness in my sound is a special inheritance of mistakes, world weariness and an unsatisfied longing to be wanted more than endured…

I can feel my stomach as I pull into Post. The car is beginning to smell of stale french fries and cold coffee. Up ahead there's a small haboob. The windmills are turning fast. The sun is hot and it shines through, foggy with sand but the wind is chilled. Orange dust scratches against the white hood of my truck.

Today, I am driving in…

I am standing under the windmills in Hermleigh, wind in my hair. I’m longing to get back to Dallas but dreading it just the same. 

Yesterday my mother said my singing voice sounds like maybe I have sadness inside. “I’ve always had sadness inside.” I told her. 

The windmills are magnificent. They…