Tiffany McDaniel

To pretend she’s a lady and not another muted beauty expected to rust her way out of creation like some broken-down tractor in a field.

But you’re soon to be my wife and I wouldn’t be worth a damn as a husband if I didn’t raise my hand to the man who raised his to you.”

MY BROKEN HOME

You give me a wall,

And I’ll give you a hole.

You give me a window,

And I’ll give you a break.

You give me water,

And I’ll give you blood.

—BETTY

He tells me to lean back and cover my ears. With the cigarette hanging in the corner of his mouth, he raises the shotgun and fires.

A girl comes of age against the knife. She must learn to bear its blade. To be cut. To bleed.

You’re either lost or you’re found.

Times will never be the same, so we give time another beautiful name until it’s easier to carry as we go on remembering where it is we’ve come from.

But you don’t need love for something to grow.

My father’s hands were soil. My mother’s were rain. No wonder they could not hold one another without causing enough mud for two. And yet out of that mud, they built us a house that became a home.

Leland loved his little sister, but his love was like a bag on a vacuum, swelling with filth.