It Wasn't That I Had Gotten It

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.

It Wasn't That I Had Gotten It Right . . . But That I Had Gotten True.

This Is A Place Where Grandmothers Hold Babies On Their Laps Under The Stars And Whisper In Their Ears That The Lights In The Sky Are Holes In The Floor Of Heaven.

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.

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.