It Was A Good Moment, The Kind

I Have Dictated Stories From An Airport After Writing The Story Out In Longhand On The Plane That I Got From Phone Interviews And Then Was Applauded By Editors For 'working Magic.

Every Life Deserves A Certain Amount Of Dignity, No Matter How Poor Or Damaged The Shell That Carries It.

These Were People... Who Built Redwood Decks On Their Mobile Homes And Have No Idea That Smart-aleck Yankees Think That Is Somehow Funny. People Of The Pines. My People.

It Was A Good Moment, The Kind You Would Like To Press Between The Pages Of A Book, Or Hide In Your Sock Drawer, So You Could Touch It Again.

I Began Reading Harper Lee's Novel In The Skimpy Shade Of A Pine Outside My Grandmother's House, Fat Beagles Pressing Against Me, Begging For Attention, Ignored. At Dark, I Kept Reading, First On The Couch, A Bologna Sandwich In One Hand, Then In My Bed, By The Light Of A 60-watt Bulb Hanging From The Ceiling On An Orange Drop Cord. When My Mother Came In From Her Job As A Maid And Unplugged My Chandelier, I Replayed The Story In My Head Until It Was Crowded Out By Dreams. I Woke The Next Morning, Smelling Biscuits, And Reached For The Book Again.