Sticky. Bright. Moist. Stifling. Hot. Virginia summers are miserable. I can hardly breathe walking to my car. Sweat drips down my chest between my breasts. My sundress sticks to my legs. The cicadas erupt in song and a skenk scurries across my path. Dust erupts on the dirt road to Carolina. Corn stalks. Tobacco leaves. Horses under the shade of trees. Six farmer’s markets. Each a mile apart. Advertising for apples. Peaches. Blueberry tarts. Homemade ice cream. Fudge. Honey. Fresh cream.
The door chimes. The aroma of Boiled peanuts and pickled eggs greet me at the entrance. A woman with skin like old tanned leather stands at the register. 25 on 2. A bottle of deer park. A bag of peach gummies. Back on the road again. I reach my destination. Large front yard. Lake in the back yard. Modular home. A picnic table in the front yard. The front door is open. I can smell home through the screen. Pork bbq. Carolina Gold ribs. Baked beans. Isaac Hayes serenades. I’m home.
Lady Interrupted 