Southern

She left without a word…not a sound….silence from a family dis- section years ago….Everyone to their corners….

No calls….numbers were lost along the way….along with photographs and memories of stretching a budget….making beans and hamhocks for five….sopped- up in cornbead…cast in an iron skillet..

And there was Southern harmony….played- out in a backyard garden turned football field in the fall….brownies for all, Here….take home some squash for your parents, Every kid gotta bag full…

But years went by…..sins emerged….secrets….accusations…falsehoods…..Family politics…the last bastion of Southern life….

Pride cut deep….but….whose?….a middle child daughter….believing a better deal was to be had….

Two older sons…..with safes of their own….locked…..kept out of sight…..

And this nomad….never landing…never ending…..just propelled into madness fueled by suicide attempts….hospitalizations …..park benches and homeless shelters; maybe it was my fault….

Yet…the angel….the last in the line-up….whose laugh was honest….whose tears….real…..He knew the truth….

The truth….there was never enough. Not for us….not for her….And that’s as Southern as it gets…..There’s a reason Faulkner drank himself to death….

Published by:

dmseay

The writing is based on my surroundings and what I've been surrounded by. This language is coarse and politically incorrect; which I make no apologies for. These characters are not nice and to use any other dialogue would be disingenuine. That being said, I choose to roll the dice. dm seay

Leave a comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s