I wanted my mother to stay right here, like sometimes the way I needed a song to keep on playing, scared of the silence when it ends. But Momma stayed tangled up these days, and the quiet between us was beginning to get right loud. I didn’t even care if I only got time with her because I was hurt, long as she sat by me for just a minute or two.

I puffed my cheeks with air and held my breath, determined not to get crying all over again. Momma’s words squeezed hard at my heart. I’m gone. I’m gone. I’m gone. She sure enough was gone, right out to work and right away from my arms that ached more to hold on to her than they did from any stupid fall on account of my sorry ‘ol brother.

“Gracie-girl, you hurt anywhere, little darling?” Ida Bell said.

“All over. Bass drums are beating in my head and the rest of me feels broke apart.”

“All right, now. Let’s me and you sit a spell.” She sang “Precious Lord” to the rhythm of the swaying swing. Her gentle hands running through my hair calmed me like the voiceless words of pine trees in the wind.

from Blackberries and Cream by Leslie Rivver (Green Writers Press)