Clear green water, tulip poplars, sepia photographs, Japan, creeks, metaphors, etymology, hand-lettered signs, holding things in my hands, old things, pocosins, passports, the sound of Portuguese, clean lines, muted colors, pomegranates, Mountain Dew in a can, Mount Olive-brand sour pickles, Havana, country roads, country wisdom, turns of phrase, hot sunshine, Sharpies and Uniballs, gods of the crossroads and protectors of travelers, small groupings of similar things, children on their birthdays, serendipity, ancestors, lists, Polaroid pictures, pedicures, back stories, Sapelo Island, soaking tubs, a hard massage, privet blooming at roadside, sliced ruby-red tomatoes sprinkled with salt, blackberries, wild cherries and hogplums, sensitive singer/songwriters, Orion and the Evening Star, Wikipedia, maps and atlases, nostalgia, New Orleans, slow winks, slow grins, scuppernongs, drawls, the long curve of an inner thigh, the warmth held in the hollow of a neck, a warm palm in the small of my back, the taste of salt on a collarbone, learning, grace.
[A heartbreaking wreck of a house. Built circa World War I, I’d guess, with a deep porch supported by brick pillars on three sides and a portico on the fourth. The double front doors stood open, but I did not venture in. The ceiling has collapsed into the wide center hall, and the walls have shifted. The back of the house is choked with wisteria and English ivy; it is rotten through and through.]