Dear Small Town,

You were there. You were there when I was brought home from the hospital. You were there when I learned how to ride a horse before a bike. You were there when I finally learned how to ride a bike and thought it would be fun to slam on the brakes going across a pond of ice. It was not fun, in fact, it was terrifying. You were there as I struggled to find myself without a dad. I bet you got a good kick out of the girl who thought she was invincible.

Small Town, you were there with my first sleepovers and girls night. You were there when I found out that boys didn't have cooties. You were there for my first love and first heartbreak. You've taken the burning rubber racing down your back roads trying to dry tears and mend my heart. You're still here as I struggle with the same problems over and over again. Patiently you wait for me to find my way in this world.

But dear Small Town, I can't move on here. You can't expect me to learn life lessons within your 116 acres. No, this population of 135 has taught me all that they know. They have nothing left to give but rhetoric. Surely, you understand that I can't stand to look at this backyard fence anymore. You do understand that my heart yearns for wide open spaces, don't you? Surely, you felt that when my horses hooves would beat across your corn fields.

Small Town, it's not that I don't love what your bluffs have to offer. It's not that I don't love to lay out in your grass and watch the stars at night. It's just that I have bigger aspirations than to worry about my neighbors, try to manage others lives, and listening to the old folk gossip through morning coffee.

I've have barrels to smoke, broncs to cover, and minds to blow. Here's to tearing down fences. Here's to running free. Call me a gypsy because I'm always on the road.

Your Morse Bluff Beauty,

Victoria Sarah Vosler