From What I Remember

There’s something about the mud where I come from. An elixir of the past and present; composed of what is washed from our bodies and that stains the soles of our feet. From the mires grow dense forests, mountains, and ravines filling with air so thick that it shrouds the hollers in mystery as if to protect the secrets that live there. The creatures tucked away, both writhing with life and cold to the touch, whisper their stories with eyes wide, blanketed by kudzu as they fade into obscured shadows that dance in the setting sun. I often ponder the land that raised me. The backwoods of southern Appalachia are a place on yonder from the rest of the world. The smell of the morning mist and the deafening buzz of cicadas seem to spirit away a little paradise that I call home. When my feet hit the dirt, I remember all of the phantoms that roam that place and played with me when I was young. Strangers and kinfolk alike inhabited that world I was accustomed to, only to fade out of focus as time slinks by. I inherited stories through all the messin’ and gommin’ on the front porch as the sun set. I pass over them with my fingers, reading them like the scars on my momma’s knees. Even as an adult I think back to childhood curious as to how those events played out and how they inform my current body, mind, and soul. It makes me want to go back, even as I still grow like the muscadine vines wild in the yard; hardier in the stem as the ages roll by but producing my own sweet fruit that I will ultimately leave behind.