Our mamas and aunts whisper weathered quilt lullabies as they rock us to sleep. Heady honeysuckle breezes tousle our hair. In the staccato calls of cardinals, the trills of Kentucky warblers, the shrill half-notes of chickadees, we hear songs before we learn to
talk. We are told stories of coal mines and collapses, of thistled dirt roads and hard-scrabble farming. We are taught to pray–for forgiveness, for gratitude, for existence. Creek water is a passage to redemption. We dream of promised mockingbirds if we hush and don’t say a word, or diamond rings as a consolation present. We learn early to be cautious of boughs breaking. We hold our breath when hearses go by to keep ourselves from laughing, listen for salvation in bluegrass notes
that wrap around us
like brackish muck
in a coal slurry pond.
