The story of me and Parchman, as River told it, is a moth-eaten shirt, nibbled to threads: the shape is right, but the details have been erased.


I don’t feel it during the day. Mostly. But something about the way the sky turns peach when the sun’s on its way down, sinking into the horizon like a rock into water, brings it back. So I take to walking when I know it’s coming. But not down the street like my crazy grand-uncle. I walk back through the woods. Follow the trails past Pop’s property line, down into the shadowed half-light under the pine trees, where the brown needles spread like a carpet over the read clay earth, and when I walk, it makes no sound. -Jojo


The branches are full. They are full with ghosts two or three, all the way to the top, to the feathered leaves. - Jojo