The next morning, the sunlight poured through the curtains, bright and warm, promising another hot day in Georgia. I could already hear Mama bustling around the kitchen, humming to herself as the sound of clinking jars and the shuffle of paper bags filled the house.

“We’re headin’ to town today, Emily!” she called. “So get yourself dressed and ready to go!”

“Okay, Mama!” I shouted back, leaping out of bed.

Going to town was always an adventure. Folkston might’ve been small, but there was something about its streets that made it feel bigger. The old brick buildings, the chatter of neighbors, and the faint smell of barbecue drifting from Jalen's Bar-B-Q & Grille always made the trip worth it.

By the time I was dressed and ready, Papa was already outside, loading up the truck with the empty feed sacks and crates we’d bring back full of groceries and supplies. He adjusted his hat and called out, “You comin’, kiddo, or are we leavin’ you behind?”

“I’m comin’!” I yelled, racing down the steps and hopping into the cab of the truck.

Mama climbed in beside me, smoothing her dress and tucking a shopping list into her purse. “Timothy, don’t you dare forget to get gas this time,” she said, giving Papa a pointed look.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied with a grin, tipping his hat to her as he started the engine.

The truck rumbled to life, and soon we were bouncing down the dirt road toward town, the morning sun glinting off the windshield. I rolled down my window, letting the warm breeze whip through my hair as the familiar sights of the countryside rolled by—fields of wildflowers, clusters of pine trees, and the occasional mailbox standing crooked by the side of the road.

When we reached Folkston, the streets were already busy with folks going about their day. Mr. Tate was sweeping the sidewalk in front of the hardware store, Mrs. Peterson was arranging peaches at her fruit stand, and kids my age were riding their bikes up and down the street.

The store parking lot at Harvey’s Supermarket was already filling up by the time we arrived, the big green sign gleaming in the morning sun. It was the only real supermarket in town, aside from the Dollar General and Dollar Tree.

Papa parked the truck in a shady spot on the side of the building and hopped out, grabbing one of the empty buggies from the back.

“All right, girls,” he said, tipping his hat back. “Let’s make this quick. I don’t wanna spend all day shoppin’.”

Mama rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, pulling her shopping list from her purse as we headed to the door. “Emily, you stick close to me,” she said, taking my hand.

The store was cool and smelled faintly of coffee and fresh bread. I loved walking through the aisles, looking at all the colorful cans and jars stacked neatly on the shelves. I walked beside Mama as she steered the buggy down the aisles, picking out bags of flour, sugar, and cornmeal. The shelves were lined with all kinds of goodies, and my eyes kept wandering to the brightly colored candy near the checkout counter.

“Emily, come back here,” Mama said, her voice firm but kind. “We’ve got plenty of sweets at home.”

“But Mama,” I started, pointing to a big jar of peppermint sticks.

“No ‘buts,’” she said with a smile. “Now go grab a sack of potatoes for me, will you?”

I ran off to the produce section, where the potatoes were piled high in wooden bins. As I grabbed a sack and struggled to hoist it into the buggy, I heard Papa talking to someone near the butcher counter.

“Timothy, I hear you bagged a big ol’ gator yesterday,” said Mr. Walker, the butcher, leaning on the counter with a grin.

“Sure did,” Papa replied, puffing out his chest a little. “Turned it into supper last night. Might be the best gator tail I’ve ever had.”

“Good eatin’,” Mr. Walker said with a chuckle. “Next time, bring me the hide. I’ll tan it up for ya.”

As the grown-ups talked, I couldn’t help but smile. Folkston might’ve been small, but it was full of big personalities, and a trip to town was never boring.

As we made our way through the aisles, Mama suddenly stopped, her face lighting up as she waved to someone near the baking section.

“Well, if it isn’t Clara Mae!” she said, steering the buggy toward a woman in a floral dress who was inspecting bags of sugar.

Clara turned with a smile. “Beverly! I thought that was you. How are you, honey?”

“Oh, you know, keeping busy,” Mama said, resting her hand on the buggy. “Timothy and Emily have been keepin’ me on my toes as usual.”

They both laughed, and I knew this was going to take a while. Whenever Mama and Clara got to talking, it was like time stood still.

While they chatted about everything from church socials to Clara’s new peach cobbler recipe, I wandered a little further down the aisle, my eyes landing on the endcap display. There, stacked in shiny cans, was a pyramid of peaches in syrup. It was taller than me, and the idea of seeing what would happen if I pulled one from the middle was suddenly irresistible.

I glanced back at Mama, who was still deep in conversation. She wasn’t paying attention. I reached out, gripping the can in the center of the stack. Slowly, I slid it out, holding my breath.

For a second, nothing happened. Then, with a soft clink, the pyramid wobbled.

I froze, my heart racing. Maybe it would stay up.

But the wobble turned into a full-on collapse, and before I could even think to stop it, cans were tumbling down, clattering onto the floor in every direction.

The noise echoed through the store, and I felt every set of eyes in Harvey’s turn in my direction.

“Emily!” Mama’s sharp voice cut through the commotion as she hurried toward me, leaving Clara behind. Her face was a mix of shock and anger.

I stood there, my cheeks burning, as she surveyed the mess of rolling cans and toppled peaches.

“What in the world were you thinkin’?” she demanded, her hands on her hips.

“I… I just wanted to see what would happen,” I mumbled, staring at my shoes.

“Well, now you know,” she said firmly, bending down to pick up one of the cans. “And you’re gonna help clean it up.”

Clara joined her, chuckling softly. “Oh, Beverly, she’s just curious. Reminds me of my boys at that age.”

Mama gave Clara a tight smile before turning back to me. “Curious or not, she knows better than to make a mess like this. Grab those cans, Emily.”

I nodded quickly and scrambled to pick up the scattered cans, stacking them back on the display with shaking hands. Clara helped a little, but I could tell Mama was still upset.

By the time the cans were back in place, I was sweaty and embarrassed, and Mama’s stern look hadn’t softened much.

“You stay right by my side for the rest of this trip,” she said as she pushed the buggy forward.

“Yes, Mama,” I muttered, trailing behind her with my head down.

Papa caught up to us near the checkout lane, holding a pack of bacon and a grin. “What’s got y’all lookin’ so serious?” he asked.

“Your daughter decided to test the laws of gravity on the canned goods aisle,” Mama said flatly.

Papa chuckled, ruffling my hair. “That’s my girl. Always experimentin’.”

Mama shot him a look that could’ve stopped a clock. “Timothy, this isn’t funny.”

“All right, all right,” he said, holding up his hands. “I’ll let y’all sort it out.”

As we loaded the groceries into the truck, I kept quiet, knowing I was on thin ice. Still, as we drove home, I couldn’t help but smile a little, thinking about how those cans had tumbled down like a waterfall.

Even if I’d gotten in trouble, it had been kind of fun.

The ride home was quiet, except for the hum of the truck engine and the occasional bump of the dirt road. I sat in the middle seat, staring out the window and letting the warm breeze brush past my face. Mama hadn’t said much after we left Harvey’s, and I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Papa glanced over at me with a small grin. “Don’t look so down, kiddo. You didn’t ruin the whole town, just a stack of peaches.”

Mama sighed, shaking her head. “Timothy, you’re not helping.”

“I’m just sayin’,” he said, nudging my shoulder playfully. “At least it wasn’t eggs. Now that would’ve been a mess.”

That made me smile, even though I tried to hide it.

When we pulled into the driveway, the truck rumbled to a stop, and Papa hopped out to grab the crates of groceries. “Emily, come give me a hand,” he said, waving me over.

I slid out of the truck, eager to make up for my mistake earlier. We carried the groceries into the kitchen, setting the bags on the counter while Mama started putting things away.

“Go on and wash up, Emily,” she said, her voice softer now. “Lunch’ll be ready soon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, heading to the bathroom to scrub the dirt and sweat from my hands.

By the time I came back, Mama had set out plates of ham sandwiches and a big bowl of potato chips on the table. Papa was already sitting down, his hat pushed back, waiting patiently as Mama brought over the pitcher of sweet tea.

“Come on, now,” Mama said, motioning for me to join them. “Let’s say grace before we dig in.”

We all bowed our heads, and Papa cleared his throat. His voice was low and steady as he prayed.

“Lord, we thank You for this food on our table, for the hands that prepared it, and for the blessings You give us each and every day. We’re grateful for the sunshine, the good folks in this town, and the love of family. Amen.”

“Amen,” Mama and I echoed, lifting our heads.

Papa grabbed his sandwich with a grin. “All right, let’s eat!” He took a swig of sweet tea.

“Now,” Mama said, “let’s talk about what happened at the store.”

I fidgeted with my sandwich, not meeting her eyes.

“I know you didn’t mean to cause trouble,” she continued, “but you’ve got to think before you act, Emily. What if someone had gotten hurt?”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” I said, my voice small. “I just wanted to see what would happen.”

She sighed, her stern expression softening. “I know you’re curious, and that’s a good thing. But there’s a time and a place for it. Next time, try asking first. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said, feeling a little better.

“Good,” she said with a small smile, handing me the pitcher of tea. “Now, pour your Papa some more sweet tea before he drinks the whole thing.”

I laughed, reaching for the pitcher.

As we ate lunch, Papa started telling stories about when he was a boy, getting into trouble of his own. “One time,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “I tried to climb the water tower to see if I could catch a bird. My mama about skinned me alive when she found out.”

I giggled, imagining Papa as a kid, hanging from a water tower with a mischievous grin.

After we finished lunch and cleared the table, Mama handed me a broom.

“Since you’re so full of energy today, you can sweep the porch,” she said with a wink.

“Yes, Mama,” I said, taking the broom and heading outside.

The porch was my favorite part of the house. It wrapped all the way around, with a few rocking chairs and a small table where Mama kept a pot of flowers. As I swept, I kept an eye on the yard, watching the bees buzz around the wildflowers and the squirrels dart up and down the big oak tree near the edge of the woods.

While I worked, Papa came around the side of the house, carrying a bucket and some tools.

“Whatcha doin’, Papa?” I asked, leaning on the broom.

“Gotta fix the fence over by the garden,” he said, setting the bucket down and inspecting one of the wooden posts. “It’s leanin’ somethin’ fierce. You wanna help?”

“Sure!” I said, setting the broom aside and hurrying over.

We spent the next hour hammering nails, tightening wires, and replacing a couple of broken slats. Papa showed me how to hold the nails steady without hitting my fingers, and I felt a little thrill every time I got one right.

“Not bad, kiddo,” he said, stepping back to admire our work. “I reckon this’ll hold up for a good while now.”

“Do you think we’ll keep the rabbits out?” I asked, brushing dirt off my hands.

“Probably not,” he said with a chuckle. “Those little critters always find a way in. But it’s worth a try.”

By the time we finished, the afternoon sun was beating down hard, and we both decided it was time for a break. Papa headed inside to grab a cold drink, and I wandered over to the edge of the woods, where the shade felt cool and inviting.

I didn’t go in—Mama always said I needed permission first—but I crouched near the tall grass, looking for interesting rocks or bugs.

“Emily!” Mama’s voice called from the house. “Come on in, sweetie. It’s too hot to be out there.”

I stood up, brushing off my knees, and headed back toward the porch.

The rest of the day passed with little Moments that made it feel special in its own quiet way. After we’d tidied up from lunch, Mama handed me a basket full of laundry.

“Come on, Emily,” she said, grabbing another basket. “Let’s get these folded before your Papa gets grease all over his good shirt again.”

We sat on the porch, the warm breeze rustling the clothes as we worked. I liked the way the sun made the sheets smell clean and fresh, like sunlight and soap. Mama hummed a tune as she folded a pillowcase, her fingers moving quick and neat.

“Mama?” I said, trying to match her speed as I folded one of Papa’s shirts.

“Hmm?” she replied, glancing at me.

“Do you think I’ll ever be as good at folding as you?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “It’s not about bein’ perfect, sugar. It’s about takin’ care of what you’ve got.”

I thought about that for a Moment as I finished my shirt. “I guess I can try harder to keep my room clean, then.”

“That’d be a fine start,” she said with a smile, tucking a folded sheet into the basket.

When the laundry was done, I wandered over to the driveway, where Papa was leaning under the hood of the truck. He had a wrench in one hand and a greasy rag in the other, muttering something about the carburetor.

“Whatcha workin’ on, Papa?” I asked, leaning against the truck.

“Just tryin’ to keep this ol’ girl runnin’,” he said, wiping his hands. “She’s got a few more miles left in her, I reckon.”

“Can I help?”

“Sure thing,” he said, handing me the rag. “Start by cleanin’ off these tools.”

I sat on the porch steps, wiping grease off the wrenches and screwdrivers while Papa tinkered away. He’d occasionally holler for me to pass him something, and I’d hand it over like a professional mechanic.

By the time he was done, the sun was dipping low in the sky, and I had a smear of grease across my cheek.

“Good job, kiddo,” Papa said, patting me on the back. “I might just have to hire you full-time.”

“I’ll take payment in candy,” I joked, and he laughed.

Later, as the sky turned shades of pink and orange, I wandered over to the bushes near the garden. The blackberry brambles were thick and tangled, but the berries were plump and juicy, just begging to be picked.

I reached in carefully, avoiding the thorns as I plucked a handful of the darkest, ripest berries. The sweet juice stained my fingers as I popped one into my mouth.

“Emily!” Mama’s voice called from the porch. “Don’t eat too many of those. You’ll spoil your supper!”

“I’m just testing ‘em!” I called back, grinning.

When I finally headed inside, my hands were sticky, and my face was smudged with blackberry juice. Mama shook her head with a smile, handing me a damp cloth.

“Go wash up,” she said. “You look like you’ve been wrestlin’ with a berry bush.”

As I washed my hands, I thought about the day—the little Moments, the laughter, the time spent with Mama and Papa. The earlier mishap at the store already felt like a distant memory, just one more story to laugh about at the dinner table.