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Mame Blackwell, small light-skinned woman with harsh gray eyes.
That told a grave story of her encounters with death and hardship.

The edge of her mien was sharpened by the blade of the wicked and taken grip.
And her spirit for life was drained years ago, and her tears have long since dried up.

She had a stern manner of makeup.

She was a non-conformist with modern styles of flimsy dresses.
She wore a white scarf around her head to hide her thin gray tresses.
Her skirts were faded and worn, and drag the Carolina soil with her.
And the thin blades of grasses likewise concur.

For many years she wrapped her strong twig-like fingers around small bodies of all hues and gender and pulled them into this rigorous existence.
With tenacity and persistence.

Many rugged seasons ago, she squatted in the center of her one room shack and pushed to the floor her one and only child.
To her, at that moment in time life seemed reconciled.

She was young in years but knew not how many.
The ones that possessed her; thought little of the importance of telling her., and this insensitive act was the object of her acrimony.




copyright 2016 Looking At The Light From The Bottom of The Lake

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