Southern Summers

A two-story house stands silent, no longer prideful of its bay window, running water in the kitchen, and a shower in the basement, or of having erased memories of shotgun houses with no heat and back-yard water pumps. Its blank windows stare onto fields where cotton once grew tall and green; where stinging dirt clods flew from our brother's straight arm, whose aim my sister and I could never match. Its closed face once laughed at red noses, dust-crusted necks, muscles tightening under skin worn waxed-paper thin by twelve-hour days under burning skies and the bitter taste of ashes blown in by a greedy little weevil. Our minds hung heavy with hard-packed dirt and skimpy crops as our hoes wielded strength and hope, our toil fueled by dreams of emerald fields and rain-kissed rows, our memories ripe with younger days when we swam in creeks, bucketed minnows, and climbed trees in search of possum grapes.