The clocks tick backwards here, as time lopes
slowly on. It’s a place with summers sticky as cane sugar
syrup and punctuated by drawling distant thunder. It’s a
place where a porch is a palace with a rocking chair for a
throne and a game of checkers for the grand scheme of
things. It’s a place where faded yellow light drifts in through
the blinds, outlining crosses and places where they think I
should be on Sunday mornings. It’s a place where
“love your neighbor as yourself” applies more to
letting a parking ticket slide than than to civil rights. It’s a
slow, steady pace and place, and it’s been home for eighteen
years. It’s a place where they’ll wait for the rest of their
lives, as the summer ticks slowly on.