Seeds in the morning. Fiddles in the afternoon.

Daddy played fiddle at the square every Saturday for fifty years. After his stroke he quit. At Sylamore he picked it back up. Slow, but he plays.

My wife has Alzheimer's but she still knows every tomato she ever grew. Hollis lets her run the seed table.

The van comes up our hollow every morning. In the ice storm, Clayton walked the last quarter mile to check on Mama.

Jenny caught Mom's blood sugar dropping and called her doctor before lunch.

I drive in from Batesville for work. Knowing Dad's on that porch instead of alone lets me breathe.

My grandmother's quilt won a ribbon at the county fair. She made it at Sylamore.

Story hour is the first time in years I've heard Dad talk about the CCC camps.

Faye's fried pies. That's my review.

Dana got Mom's waiver sorted in a month.

It's the gentlest, most alive place I know.

When Mama passed, Rev. Cole came to the house. They didn't forget us.