BamamaPancakes

Carly Jean Where sunrises meant home and freedom slid off a boat turned upside-down, fishing lines and bare toes interrupted waters called the Sound; I wonder what the sound of their voices were as children, sisters in gowns of ribbons, satin colors pulled from wreaths of remembrance. That is what they wore, while folded cotton sat in crooks of trees, while children were children, sisters were sisters. The comfort of flat land, sandy meshed soil and pine trees, the smell of salt and summertime, and stories of when 4H was $14 and steep. Oh if I were the Sound, I would put the jewels of orange 6 am’s in a jar like fireflies; I would weave the color of those cemetery ribbons through these notebook lines, onto these pages so I can tell folks who ask for my name that I heir’d it honest.  Happy birthday Jean. <3