Heritage-leaf rustle, train whistle, stacks of dusted Bibles. This sense of it mattering to The Man Upstairs, our stories-like each chapter matters and simply can’t be omited. I’m from a line of preacher folks on both sides. What got in deepest is this sense that a mystery was on things. Especially in the south, this mystery pervades all things living. I mean a cart of peaches in that light gets us to glory talk. But also the simple things-shared meals with my family. Softball games on Friday nights. The sound of a nearby creek. Where I’m from there is always a creek nearby. This sense of our generation being spliced from their heritage-lie amnesia, like floating.
I come from somewhere, and from people. It has taken me a lifetime to figure out that i need them both internally and literally. We need to brush against one another frequently in this life. It’s just basic.
