Andy Gullahorn Freedom
Every summer they’d load the car and drive up to the mountains.
A family tradition going on fifteen years.
She was the oldest and the only one not laughing, her mind a million miles away somewhere.
Her parents always gave her everything she wanted until all she wanted was to get away.
So she ran off with some guy she knew from high school.
They’d stay out all night long, paint the town and say
So this is freedom.
So this is what its like to get behind the wheel.
This is freedom.
I used to wonder now I know the way it feels.
This is freedom.
Just three years later he was way out of the picture.
But he left her with two little boys.
They lived off welfare checks to put food on the table.
At night you’d hear her crying picking up the toys.
(Chorus)
It wasn’t what she hoped for.
All those dreams were only lies.
She could take it as a curse or she could look through different eyes.
Every summer they load the car and drive up to the mountains.
A modern day family in a minivan.
She can hear the children laughing in the back seat and with each passing mile she understands
(Chorus)
