There Is No Arizona

It started in the summer of 2000.

My sister and I were the ripe ages of 10 and 11 and sharing a small room with twin size beds.

At night we would push our beds together, open the window and turn on CMT. We loved the country music lulling us to sleep.

One night, the load volume of the television awoke me from my deep slumber. I reached for the remote to turn the volume down, but I hesitated.

I watched the music video. The whole thing, with the music blaring from our tiny television.

A few nights later, I woke up again. The same song was playing and I was excited.

I loved it. I loved it.

It was Jamie O’Neal singing about the blue sky and the Grand Canyon.

There were scenes of the desert and cactuses.

It was brilliant.

The next time it was on, I shook my sisters sleeping body.

“Wha…?” she mumbled.

“Wake up!” I exclaimed. “Listen to this song!”

She did, reluctantly.

And she hated it.

“This song is terrible, Autumn. Go back to sleep.”

I wasn’t discouraged, though. I knew she was wrong.

So I bought the CD.

I listened to the song over and over and over again. Eventually I put the song on my mp3 player and listened to frequently. Now, with it on my iPod, I rolled the windows down and belted it out.

Ten years later.

I really do love the song, Brittany.

(And you were wrong.)