When I think of the word "love" I automatically think of Houston, Texas.
The city that created me.
The city that made me.
The city I grew up in.
The city I rode through late at night with my high school sweetheart of 10 years.
The city that has a niche and pocket catered to almost every minority group.
The city where the sun bounces off the concrete and gets so hot during the summer that you feel like you're in a sauna.
I imagine the freeways.
I-10, I-45, Hwy 6.
The tollways. The belt.
I imagine Sugarland,Texas. An upper class county that's snuggled in between Missouri City and the outskirts of Houston, Texas itself.
Missouri City. A predominantly African-Americn county settled next to Stafford, Texas. A predominantly African-American county that is viewed as a black suburb by those who drive through it, but a hood by those who live within it.
This love for my city was created by the beautiful people I was able to meet while living in Houston, Texas. It was created by the adventures I was able to be a part of while living in Houston, Texas.
Adventures such as my high school sweetheart's ancient mazda breaking down in front of the Wal-Mart on Hwy-6 and him running to the nearest gas station to buy a coca-cola just to pour over the battery.
Adventures such as us driving down a one way street before hitting oncoming traffic and realizing we were on the wrong street.
Adventures such as driving with the windows down on Hwy-6 doing 80 as the wind whips through my curls and cuts across my face all the while drowning in the lights and the architecture that is Houston, Texas.
That is love.