My Love Letter to Savannah

Dear Savannah,

You’re hot and humid as hell. There were times that I walked through your shady squares and uneven cobblestone sidewalks and felt like I was in some sweaty person’s armpit. Your incessant humidity made me cry.

But I love you.

You’re a pain in the ass to drive through. I don’t understand the need for two left turn lights when there’s only one left turn lane, and I hate how many times I had to refigure my route because the lane I was in suddenly became turn-only. I can’t even bear to think about what I could’ve done with the time I instead spent negotiating with one-way streets lined with spanish moss and old southern homes.

And I love you.

You’re haunted as shit. They call you “the city built on its dead” and I think you’re insanely proud of that fact. It didn’t bother anyone to move Tomachichi’s monument to make room for a new one because hell, what’s one more restless soul in the most haunted city in America? Live oaks churn up skeletons on the regular and it took me an hour to wander through the headstones and memories of your only remaining cemetery because your history is so expansive that it must be counted in remembrance and storytelling. The past is stacked upon itself; you don’t have the physical space to house all the spirits that can never, would never leave you.

Like them, I love you.

The truth is, Savannah, it’s impossible not to love you. Try as we might, you are charming and disarming. You give us sprawling oaks and cool green leaves to shelter us from the heat. You throw us down one way streets so we can see you, really see you and you bury your dead under the dead under the living so you will always have room for us. You are a pain, you are miserable, you are burdened with history we shudder to think of repeating.

I will always love you.

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