Her Laughter Was A Shiny Thing, Like

Mama Always Taught Her Children That Words Were Pretty, But Anyone Can Talk. She Said, Pay Attention To That Man Or Woman Who Acted, Who Did, Who Performed. She Taught Us To Trust In Thing We Could See, Not That We Heard.

She Was One Of Those Southerners Who Knew From An Early Age That The South Could Never Be More For Them Than A Fragrant Prison, Administered By A Collective Of Loving But Treacherous Relatives.

Humanity Is Best Described As Inhumanity.

There Are No Verdicts To Childhood, Only Consequences, And The Bright Freight Of Memory.

Writing Has Never Been That Simple For Me.