Behold: Scottsville, VA; Old Woodville at dusk:
A hair under 50 degrees—and the birds were every bit as unsettled as the tow-headed toddlers up at the homestead, tossing their wooden blocks and brandishing new teeth at admiring aunts and uncles.
Every time these birds took flight, after each distant gunshot that rang through the woods, silence would break across the expanse of grass and the trees would shudder almost painfully with the heavy whoosh of their departure.
[Birds or bees?]
If you only knew how many hours I spent shyly leaning against this very fence, watching the boys flex in their handsome, never-awkward youth, shooting clay pigeons and swilling beers. Consider this my coming to terms with a part of my life that reminded me of ‘ugly’ but far surpassed any beauty I have yet to see.
[Vintage bomber jacket + Seven jeans + Golden Goose boots + J.Crew silk blouse.]
Would you like an indulgent post about rediscovering your soul in that moment when you’ve re-found your roots? Because here’s one ripe for the picking.
Mama, I’m coming home.