Mississippi Moments

Friday, May 25, 2007

It's a small wooden box. With some cheap brass overlay. Pretty beat up. It belonged to my great grandpa, Pop. The smoker with the overalls, black, slick-backed hair, knobby fingers, undecipherable eyes, rocking chair man who loved my mother something fierce. I don't know what he kept in it, but I keep some junk and some precious stuff. I would like to simplify down to something like the LIttlest Angel-dog collars from dear old dead dogs, a rock or two, a dried flower, a claddagh that used to mean something...I keep words in there, too.

"You can't figure me out. I can't figure me out. It's Life, Sidda.
You don't figure it out. You just climb up on the beast and ride" (Ya-Ya's-p. 47)

" She cried. At the beauty of what she had stumbled onto, at the fear that something terrible would happen because she was not vigilant enough.
She cried at the fear of something so good that she would not be brave enough to bear it." (Ya-Ya's-p. 22)

"Let me see my daughter like my mother could never see me. Let her see me, too." (Ya-Ya's-p. 20)

I am going to add a shell or two from the shores of Iona, some of my own words, and some doghair from present puppy.


  • At 9:28 AM, Anonymous coli said…

    beautiful words, yours.


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