She was an American Girl,
Born amongst the green corn fields of Cherry Valley, with a purple bow in her hair.
Grew up next to a dairy farm, below the foothills of the Catskill Mountains.
Raised on promises…
Lived through the history of the battles fought and won in the valleys of her homeland.
Long legs, longer arms, short dirty blonde hair, skin that turned berry brown in the heat of summer.
High cheek bones and dark, deer brown eyes that resembled her ancestors.
That nose ring her grandmother never approved of.
With her long hair falling, and her eyes that shine like a midnight sun. Oh, she’s the one.
She was an American Girl.
Red, white, and blue were always her colors.
Her school alma mater and the colors she preferred most to represent her country, her land, her home.
Sun so hot, the clouds so low, the eagles filled the sky…
Ferrari red nails and snow white toenails.
A pair of old cowboy boots found along Route 20. A pair of smelly Teva sandals that never got old. A blister on her heel after 30 miles of hiking.
Worn out jeans she would cut into Daisy Duke shorts to show off her legs and that new poke and stick tattoo. Always trying to mimic the women in that Dallas Cowgirl Cheerleading poster in her father’s 1972 yellow Chevy Van. The real influencers before Instagram.
The swish of a soccer ball in the net. The way her thighs were toned from training and running miles on a soccer field or around a track. She never complained about playing in the heat. Some girls in the world cannot run or wear shorts at all.
Knocking me out with those American thighs…
She was an American Girl.
Bibles, books of poetry, glass bowls, and double IPA’s.
Glitter spilled in her pockets and at the bottom of her purse.
Butterfly wings and blue jay feathers stashed in the console of her once dilapidated car.
A Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac…
Flowers in her hair and throwing roses in the rain.
Water was her calling, that shade of blue that never stayed the same. She wore mis-matched bikinis all summer long and sprayed her hair with lemon juice, always trying to make that blonde stand out.
Driving with her windows down, hand stretched out, trying to grab the humidity as it passed by. Drying her lake drenched hair in the breeze. Volume always cranked high, playing the Greats and her garage sale records she bought herself.
Dancing in the dark, under the stars. She never cared who was watching. The way the music could make her body move was one of the most beautiful things she ever felt. One of the most beautiful things someone had maybe ever seen.
I was singin’ to you, you were singin’ to me, I was so alive, never been more free…
Fireworks were her favorite. Something about them and how they lit up the dark sky, gave her the hope that she needed. The urge to always want to cry. Not from sadness, but from pride. From freedom, from this feeling of independence that she never felt anywhere else in the world, but here.
In America.
Wherever she went, wherever she traveled, America was the place everyone wanted to go.
She couldn’t help thinking that there was a little more to life somewhere else…
Those American girls were always the ones they wanted.
Always the ones with a fire, a spark, a freedom that was fought for.
Something about us, the world simply loved.
All we had to do was smile.
Us, American Girls.