Editor's Note. [3] I cannot argue against a single sentence any human being writes. ^[4] You can take them one at a time but the house recommends putting on a pot of coffee—a weak instant you need a pound of sugar in to flavor it up—and scroll top to bottom until your eyes bleed. [5] This is both metaphor and plain speaking. [6] After Jorge Luis Borges. [7] For D.R.V. [8] Enjoy. [9]

(I) [10]

I was twelve when I moved to Mississippi and my silence was strengthened by KKK eyes. [11] Genesis, Exodus, all that. [12] Growing up was going to be much more difficult than I had thought, I remember, somewhat vaguely, thinking at that moment. [13] After all, it was still 1964. [14] I was a shadow waiting for my life to begin. [15] I was a girl of few concerns, and love was not one of them. [16] Here, in part, is what I wholly remember. [17]

In the house for sale, a 104-year-old photograph; the house, hitching post outside, nothing else for miles except a stone curb for the dirt street. [18] That old house with hollow planks and filthy couches. [19] The light barely glimmers through the old bedspread curtain. [20] Arcs over the house. [21] Deep down where roots thin to wisps, the still-growing hair of my ancestors twists into a braid. [22] A yellowed map hangs upon the wall. [23]

What about Mother, though? [24] The scent of oil in the room, her tangled hair. [25] Her dress looked like it was made of paper towels. [26] She had not slept in several days. [27] She had a thing about light—she wore tinted glasses in the house which made her look like someone from another decade, long since past. [28] All but invisible, she stands among the coats, smelling the night air on them. [29] A silver charm hangs in between the breasts. [30] She speaks and in her voice I hear the husky tones of years of tobacco and alcohol and suddenly realize how this young face has been structured and preserved through makeup that now looks too thick to be trusted. [31] Death hangs about her as if she were a train-wreck conductor who made it to safety — her story will be in the rumors of what was left on fire. [32]

Jesus, why did all this have to happen? she asked and looked at me as if I had known the answer all along. [33] Close up, her skin was pouched beneath her eyes. [34] But my hand was already holding the side of hers. [35] I want more love for her. [36] In these last years she has become so dry, so odorless, so slim, and so patient. [37] She just continues. [38] She was shaking and I could do nothing about it. [39] She cried. [40] This could easily be a theme: things that were once of utmost importance but are now lost to memory. [41]

(II) [42]

The moon shattered into a billion pieces. [43] I hear the dishes in the sink move. [44] Outside, some kids were torturing a wounded sparrow. [45] A box of cereal topples over. [46] Mother? [47] Gathering her things. [48] In bags. [49] This was done in a rapid fashion and continually. [50] Empty house as an index of possibility. [51] But my little-brother wasn't anymore alive enough to go away with us. [52] He is sinking, speeding up as he approaches the middle of the earth. [53] My brother is dead. [54] Kinship in some circles is not a perfect geometry. [55] Things would never be the same. [56]

I made sure all the windows were locked. [57] The lock on the door buzzes and clicks. [58] Leaving through the mist. [59] Very little was said. [60] There was already much sadness in this house. [61] The neighborhood was silent. [62] Not a soul outside. [63] There is a flashlight, also wearing yellow. [64] In knee socks and the rest I looked serious and quiet and warm. [65] Walking, my feet ached. [66] Gnarled roots break through ground. [67] My nails tore at the tenderest spot. [68]

I heard the rustling of the branches. [69] Forest illuminated by moonlight. [70] No one looks as good as they do at night, right next to the moon. [71] It looked like our hands had been dipped in stars. [72] The ground is covered with black and purple berries which pop under my feet like ripe pimples on a junkie's back. [73] O double exile. [74]

(III) [75]

Night. [76] More and more passengers getting on the bus. [77] The fumes are appalling. [78] My mother's purse along with everything she had left in her purse got us from Albion and all the way out of Oklahoma to Hot Springs and our start through Arkansas. [79]