Small Town is a specific city and every city. It has high incidences of violence, sexual assaults, and drug overdoses. It is dangerous for women. It is also a place where people live and work and make babies and wake up every day.
News articles talk about the rate of violent crimes soaring in Small Town. People go there to vacation. It has parks and tourist attractions, recreation sites and restaurants. Locals complain about rampant drug use, mainly opioids and meth. There is little infrastructure set up to deal with the crisis.
Small Town is where Sarah dated two boys at once, a fraught love triangle that would last for several years. It is where Sarah drove a large black truck while drinking Red Bull and blasting hip-hop. It is the site of Sarah’s second try at getting clean. Small Town is where my mother flew to tell my sister that our dad was in a coma. It is where Sarah worked as a pizza delivery driver, a barista, an office assistant, and a drug dealer. It is where Sarah died. Small Town is where I drove her one May day to Olive Garden for unlimited breadsticks and then dropped her off at Shining Light rehab. I have regretted it ever since.
I visited her there just once, for a sobriety conference. I have pictures of Sarah and me from that trip. The sky is pink behind us, and our cheeks are pressed together. We are smiling.