Rotten Fruit

“Well you got a mighty fine memory, donchya?” Leland said. “All them Hargroves live down this way.” Sophie recognized the name as soon as he said it, the Hargroves, whom she knew as the main black family of Azalea.

Bessy Hargrove was her grandmother’s best friend, and the last time Sophie was in Azalea they attended her ninety-eighth birthday party in the Azalea Baptist Church. They had been the only white people there, occupying one table in the back near the buffet tables, yet Sophie distinctly remembered they were ordered to take their food first.


I’m never entirely sure why I read, or write, but it definitely always feels like a reminder. A reminder that words, enough of them, might explain problems that I can’t or get me out of cyclical thought patterns or allow me to explore new ways of being in the world.