Dear Cary,
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
A summer’s day is an inch of green pollen covering everything. It’s the heat bouncing off gravel roads in waves so thick you can actually see it. It’s driving with the windows down in search of a body of water so you have an excuse to sip on something next to it while the sun drenches your skin.
The body of water doesn't have to be blue, or cold, or particularly clean. It can be a man-made lake. It can have a weak fountain sputtering circulated brown water.
A fountain that’s positioned… slightly crookedly. A building error that’s resulted in sandy sediment building up on one side of the lake, forming a makeshift island. If you sort of squint and tilt your head to the left, the mound of sand is vaguely in the shape of a dog.
We named it “Doggy Island.” (Go figure.) We used to wade through the dirty water barefoot and pad our way over to sit on the sand so that we could rule a little bit of the world on hot days in August.
But now I’m older, and my feet stay dry. I sip on a Truly on a towel instead of clambering atop sandy sediment. I look at my island.
It looks small.
The man-made lake is situated between a few neighborhoods that all look the same but somehow all have their own unique man-made reputations. They’re connected by the Greenway, a tangle of forest that has a road winding through it, so you can pretend you’re in the woods without ever stepping off pavement.
That’s you, Cary: fresh concrete meeting old dirt. Band-aids covering scraped knees. White socks peeking out of muddy sneakers. A man-made lake.
I can’t help but love you.
Near my house there used to be a farm where a brown horse and a white horse lived. We saw them daily. When I was little, my sister named the horses Snowflake and Brownie. (Go figure.) To the right of that, there was a strawberry field. And behind it, all woods. Acres and acres of green and brown, and plants and bugs, and life and dirt.
But now the strawberries are gone, replaced by a small strip of stores, namely a drugstore. Snowflake and Brownie’s pasture has since been paved over, a subpar chain burger drive-through and another drugstore sitting in its place.
That’s you, Cary: old meets new. Southern hospitality meets Everything Else. A mismatched Research Triangle/Transatlantic accent. Close enough to “The Peak of Good Living.” A Containment Area for Relocated Yankees. Farm houses adjacent to MLM dental practices. The Cary Bubble.
You’re the art center I had my first job at. You’re the boutique I work at now.
You’re another damn drugstore nobody needs. (Go figure.)
How embarrassing it is to love you.
Every New Years Eve a kitschy plastic acorn lowers in accordance with the midnight countdown. First counting down to 7pm for parents who are trying to trick their children to go to bed early and again, for real this time, at midnight proper. Okay, fine, that’s actually Raleigh, because that’s Cary – doing anything you can in Raleigh because everything closes at 8pm in Cary and it’s so boring. That and saying Raleigh when somebody asks where you’re from, but having to backtrack and explain that you’re actually from Cary when they follow up with too many questions.
It’s a thin line, love and hate.
And sometimes I toe that line closer towards the latter.
I’ve tried to wash away the taste of vinegar-based Smithfeilds barbecue and hush puppies. Rye bread grilled cheese from the Ashworth Drug Store. An underripe cherry picked straight from the tree. Goodberries dripping down my arm because the store is too packed after highschool football games to eat with any grace.
I’ve tried to walk away from swampy heat-stroke weather. An overhead fan that works too hard and the humidity it does nothing to deter. Dreamed of finding a place where having a “snow day” actually means having snow. No more boogie board “sledding” down Death Mountain, aka a mildly steep slope two neighborhoods over, when there’s enough icy slush to justify it.
Tried escaping the sound of cicadas. The buzz of over-air conditioning. The squeak of a swing set over wood chips and weeds, its rusted chain link cut slightly shorter than the height I was when I was six so that I could “grow into it.”
Tried hiding from the smell of Honeysuckles and crabapples. A waft of Carolina jessamine. The smoke from a backyard cookout.
I’ve been trying to leave you for as long as I can remember.
We learned how to drive and the world got bigger fast. You can do practically anything if you just sit in a car for 30 minutes. Like going to a coffee shop but it’s better because it’s in Raleigh. Or going to a restaurant, but it’s better because it’s in Durham. We’d spend afternoons anywhere else just to come home at 7pm anyway. Then we’d sit in the car some more, making use of an empty parking lot in our sleepy town.
That’s you, Cary: You taught me Walmart parking lot culture. The Chicks “Wide Open Spaces” and taking a long drive down 55. A trip to RDU. A deep seated urge to leave.
You taught me to go. Before I realize just how good you are. Before I forget to look for ways that other places can be better.
But that’s you: Loving you is leaving you.
Eventually I’ll be back. It will just be later than 7pm.
Love,
Layla
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