The Lo Zone

...and what doesn't.

Sir Shakey

Lady T.

Mary and her husband Gareth

“See, I told you dum-dum. That frog ain’t turn to no dust,” the little girl taunted in a heavy southern accent. She had her hand on her hip, just the way Aunt Sister always stood. Her head rolled on her slender neck with an expertise far beyond her seven years. She stared at her brother waiting for his response, which would probably be a swift smack upside her head. Instead, he brushed past his sister fuming at his fallacy. She giggled at his defeat and skipped toward the creek to look for another activity.

Approaching the creek, the girl settled on dangling her legs over the dilapidated bridge that straddled the small stretch of water. She tiptoed to the middle of the bridge, careful to avoid the missing spaces where planks of wood once lay. Finding a secure spot, she carefully sat and began to further roll up the legs of her faded over-alls. They were two sizes too big, an obvious hand-me-down from her brother. Coupled with his oversized white t-shirt, she was lost in her ensemble. Her pants legs rolled to her satisfaction, the girl gingerly lowered her body and slid her legs under the railing of the bridge. Her legs were just long enough now that her feet skimmed the top of the creek water. Leaning back on her hands with her face turned upward at the sun, she remembered the days when Mama was alive and yearned for them with a hunger too deep for her own understanding.