| Author | Message | ||
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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3615 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention My Father Called Us Fireflies T. E. Ballard ( Treezaa) When my grandmother was dying he transplanted the blueberry bush next to her bed. Cancer was a color then white like paper and it rose, thin and quiet to the branch, the berries staining sheets, hands, the rim of her mouth. My grandmother took me to the river or my father placed me there— I cannot remember anything but stillness, how a body stops being afraid. Sweet green, the taste of death growing its own fruit. |
