Growing up in Fitzgerald, I lived in an intense microcosm, where your neighbor knows what you’re going to do even before you do, where you can recognize a family gene pool by the lift of...

Images are the pegs holding down memory’s billowing tent.

First memory: a man at the back door is saying, I have real bad news, sweat is dripping off his face, Garbert’s been shot, noise from my mother, I run to her room behind her,...

Sometimes you have to travel back in time, skirting the obstacles, in order to love someone.