Southern Sunlight -11

The school bus bumped down the dusty road, and I felt my eyelids gettin' heavy as the trees blurred past the window. It was that kinda tired that comes from runnin' hard at recess, thinkin' real hard in class, and eatin' just a little too much at lunch.

When the bus finally stopped near our driveway, I hopped off, wavin' to Abby as the doors hissed shut behind me. The air was warm, heavy with that familiar swampy smell, but I didn't mind it. It smelled like home.

I could already hear the soft cluckin' of the chickens and the low hum of cicadas as I made my way up toward the house. Mama's truck was parked by the porch, and I saw her hangin' clothes on the line, her back turned as the breeze tugged at the damp shirts.

"Hey, Mama!" I called.

She turned and smiled, wipin' her hands on her apron. "Hey there, baby. How was school?"

"It was good! We got a big project about wildlife. Me and Abby picked alligators!" I said, my chest puffin' a little with pride.

"Alligators, huh? Figures," she said with a laugh. "Now, you know the drill—put your bag inside and come help me finish up out here. These clothes ain't gonna hang themselves."

"Yes, ma'am."

I dropped my backpack and shoes by the door and came back out, bare feet pressin' into the warm dirt. I grabbed a damp towel from the basket and stretched up to pin it to the line, lettin' it flap in the breeze.

Once we finished, Mama handed me a small bucket of chicken feed.

"Go on and feed them hens," she said. "And don't let Ruby bully you. She's been actin' extra feisty today."

I laughed. Ruby was always a little bossy, struttin' around like she was the queen of the coop. I scattered the feed across the ground, and the hens came rushin' over, cluckin' and peckin' like they hadn't eaten in days. Ruby puffed up and gave me a side-eye, but I was ready for her.

"Don't start with me," I warned, pointin' a finger. "You got plenty right there."

She clucked but backed off, diggin' into the grain with the others.

After the chickens were fed, Mama called me over to the garden. The weeds were already creepin' up between the rows of tomatoes and squash.

"Start pullin' those weeds, Em," she said, kneelin' down beside me.

I squatted down, fingers diggin' into the warm dirt. It wasn't my favorite chore, but I liked workin' alongside Mama. We didn't always talk much when we gardened, but sometimes she'd tell me stories about when she was a little girl—about how she and Uncle Ray used to pick blackberries down by the creek and come home with purple-stained fingers.

"Papa comin' home on time today?" I asked after a while, wipin' the sweat off my forehead.

"I reckon so," Mama said, checkin' the tomatoes. "He was workin' on that cabinet for Mrs. Jenkins. Should be done today."

I smiled. I liked when Papa got home early. It meant we'd have more time to sit on the porch, maybe listen to the frogs, or he'd show me how to carve somethin' new.

By the time we finished the garden, my knees were stained with dirt, and my fingers had little specks of soil stuck under the nails. I wiped my hands on my overalls, standin' up and stretchin'.

"That's good work, baby," Mama said, standin' too. "Let's get washed up and start on supper. Your papa'll be hungry."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, feelin' that good kind of tired—the kind that comes from a day full of doin' things that mattered.

As we walked back toward the house, I glanced out toward the trees beyond our yard. I knew there were gators out there, hidin' somewhere in the swampy water. And soon, I'd know even more about 'em, thanks to our project.

But for now, I was just happy to be home.

The kitchen smelled wonderful—like tomatoes, onions, and spices all blended together into somethin' warm and good. Mama and I had been workin' on stuffed tomatoes for supper—Georgian-style, as Mama called 'em. It was one of those recipes that made you feel like you were cookin' somethin' fancy, but really, it was just good ol' Southern comfort food.

We had sliced the tops off the tomatoes, scooped out the insides, and mixed 'em with rice, ground beef, onions, and herbs. Mama even let me sprinkle a little cheese on top before we slid the pan into the oven.

"There," she said, wipin' her hands on her apron. "That'll be ready in a bit."

Just as she said it, we heard the familiar sound of Papa's truck rollin' up the drive. The tires crunched over the dirt, and the engine hummed low before cuttin' off.

I perked up right away. "Papa's home!"

I darted to the door, throwin' it open and rushin' onto the porch before he'd even stepped out of the truck.

"Papa! We're makin' stuffed tomatoes!" I called, bouncin' on my toes.

He climbed out, stretchin' his back with a little groan. "Well now, that sounds mighty fine after the day I've had."

He shut the truck door and grabbed his toolbox, walkin' up toward the house. His shirt was dusty, and there was a little sawdust stickin' to his pants, but he had that same easy smile on his face—the one he always had when he was glad to be home.

"How was work?" I asked, followin' him like a shadow as he stepped up onto the porch.

"Busy," he said, settin' his toolbox down by the door. "Finished up that cabinet for Mrs. Jenkins. She seemed real happy with it."

Mama stepped out onto the porch, wipin' her hands on a dishtowel. "Well, you're just in time. Supper's nearly ready."

Papa leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "My favorite kind of news."

We all went inside, and I peeked into the oven, seein' the tomatoes sizzlin', the cheese meltin' on top just right. My stomach grumbled loud enough for Papa to hear.

He chuckled. "Sounds like someone's ready to eat."

"Yes, sir!" I grinned.

While Mama finished settin' the table, Papa washed up, and I helped get the drinks ready—sweet tea for them, and lemonade for me.

When the tomatoes came out, they were hot and bubbly, the tops crisped just a little. Mama scooped one onto each plate, and we all sat down together.

Before we picked up our forks, Papa bowed his head, and we joined hands.

"Lord, we thank You for this food, for the work that made it, and for this home You've given us. Bless this family and keep us safe. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I echoed.

I cut into my tomato, the filling steamin' as I took a bite. It was rich and savory, the kind of food that made you slow down and enjoy every bit.

"Mmm... Mama, this is real good," I said through a mouthful.

Papa nodded, takin' a big bite. "Best thing I've tasted all day."

We ate, talkin' about our day—Papa's work, Mama's garden, and my project about gators.

"I'll have to tell you some more gator stories when you're workin' on that poster," Papa said, winkin' at me.

I grinned, knowin' this project was gonna be even more fun than I thought.

After supper, Mama shooed me and Papa out of the kitchen while she cleaned up. I didn't mind—I knew what was comin'.

Papa grabbed his old whittlin' knife and a fresh block of wood, and I followed him out onto the porch like his little shadow. The sky was turnin' purple with the last bit of daylight, and the air was thick with that good Georgia summer smell—wet dirt, pine trees, and a hint of somethin' sweet ridin' the breeze.

We settled into our usual spots—Papa in his rocker, me cross-legged on the porch floor at his feet. The boards were still a little warm from the sun, and the sound of the swamp was startin' up—the croaks of frogs, the chirp of crickets, and the occasional call of a bird somewhere deep in the trees.

"You ready to learn somethin' new tonight?" Papa asked, flippin' open his knife with a soft click.

"Yes, sir," I said, my eyes already fixed on the wood in his hands.

He turned the block over a couple times, studyin' it like he could already see what was inside.

"We're gonna carve you a gator," he said with a grin.

My heart jumped a little. "Really? Like... with teeth and a tail and everything?"

He nodded, his fingers runnin' along the wood. "A proper gator. You can take it to school when you give that presentation—show 'em you know more than just what's in a book."

I sat up straighter. This was serious. I knew Papa's whittlin' was somethin' special. He didn't just make little toys—he made pieces that felt like they belonged in our home. His hands knew what they were doin', and now he was gonna teach me.

He handed me a smaller piece of wood, somethin' easier to work with, and showed me how to hold it steady in one hand while keepin' the knife in the other. His voice was low, patient, like he had all the time in the world.

"You don't rush," he said, easin' the knife along the edge. "Whittlin's about seein' what's inside and lettin' it come out. You start with the shape—you don't worry 'bout the little details yet. That comes later."

I watched as his knife peeled thin curls of wood away, revealin' the rough outline of a long body—a gator's body. The snout stretched out, and the tail curved just a little at the end.

I tried to follow along, my hands not quite as sure as his. My gator was lookin' more like a lumpy stick, but Papa didn't say nothin' bad. He just smiled and guided my hand.

"See, right here—you wanna round that belly out a little more. Gators ain't straight like a log. They curve, like they're always ready to move."

I nodded, tongue stickin' out a little as I worked.

The sun slipped lower, and the porch got dim, but we kept on. Papa's gator was takin' shape fast—rough scales along its back, little legs tucked close to its body, and a mouth that looked like it could snap shut at any second.

Mine... well, it still needed some work. But Papa didn't mind. Every so often, he'd reach over and shave a little here, smooth a spot there, showin' me how to see what I was missin'.

"Details come last," he reminded me. "Once you got the shape, that's when you do the eyes, the teeth... the things that make it come to life."

By the time Mama stepped out onto the porch, wipin' her hands on her towel, the stars were startin' to peek through the trees.

"You two still at it?" she asked, smilin'.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, holdin' up my little wooden gator. It was a bit rough, kinda crooked, but I was proud of it.

Papa held up his gator beside mine—his was perfect, with each tooth and scale carved jus

t right. But he looked at mine like it was somethin' special, too.

"Not bad for a first try," he said, winkin' at me.

I beamed.

We sat there a little longer, listenin' to the swamp, holdin' our gators like they were treasures.

Because they were.

As I worked my knife along the little block of wood, tryin' to shape my gator's tail, I started talkin' without even thinkin'.

"Today at recess, we played soccer—boys against girls. We crushed 'em," I said, grinnin' a little.

Papa chuckled, shavin' down a fine strip of wood from his gator's back. "That so? You show 'em how it's done?"

"Yes, sir," I said proudly. "Me and Abby—we were runnin' circles around 'em. Jacob kept actin' like they let us win, but he knows better."

Mama laughed softly from her seat, listenin' as she leaned back in her chair. "Sounds like you had 'em runnin' scared."

I nodded, but then my knife slipped a little, and I had to slow down, focusin' on what I was doin'. The next part came out quieter, like I wasn't sure if I wanted to say it.

"I was thinkin'... if I was a boy, we'd all be on the same team. We'd be real good together."

I didn't look up right away, but I could feel Papa glancin' over at me. His voice stayed steady, calm like it always was when we talked about this stuff.

"You think bein' a boy would've made a difference?" he asked, smoothin' out the gator's snout with his knife.

I shrugged, shavin' off a little more wood from the side of my gator's belly. "Maybe. I don't know. Sometimes... I just feel like I fit better that way. When I'm runnin' with the boys, playin' hard... it's like it makes sense. But then... I don't wanna stop bein' me, neither."

The porch got real quiet, except for the sounds of the swamp—frogs croakin', crickets chirpin', and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.

Mama was the first to speak, her voice soft but sure. "Well, baby... you don't gotta pick. You can be you—play ball, climb trees, whittle gators—and still come in here and help me bake pies. You don't have to be just one thing."

I looked up then, and Papa nodded, his eyes kind and steady.

"She's right," he said. "You're already part of the best team there is—our family. And we love you just the way you are."

My chest felt a little tight, but in a good way. Like I belonged.

I smiled, a small one at first, but then it grew bigger. "Thanks, y'all."

We went back to whittlin', the quiet comfortable now, like we'd all said what needed sayin'. I looked at my little gator again—still a little rough, but I liked it. It was mine.

After a while, the porch got real quiet again—just the soft scrape of our knives on wood and the frogs croakin' out by the swamp. Mama stood up, stretchin' a little with a yawn.

"Well, I'm headin' inside to check on that bread," she said, wipin' her hands on her apron. "Don't stay out here too long—you know them skeeters'll eat you alive."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, still focused on my little wooden gator's tail.

Papa nodded to her, then watched as she went inside, the screen door creakin' and slappin' shut behind her. The porch light cast a warm glow, but beyond it, everything was dark—just shadows and the sounds of the night.

That's when he spoke, his voice low and gentle, like he was makin' sure it was just for me.

"Emily," he said, not lookin' right at me, but still close enough that I knew it mattered. "Do you... do you want to be a boy?"

The question hung there in the warm night air, like the sound of the frogs had faded for a second.

I froze, my knife still pressed against the wood. I hadn't expected him to ask it—not like that. Not so plain.

I didn't know what to say at first, so I just stared down at my little gator. Its rough shape was startin' to look more like what I wanted it to be—still not perfect, but gettin' there.

I took a breath. "I... I don't know."

Papa didn't say nothin'. He just let me sit with it, like he was givin' me space to find the words.

"I feel like... sometimes I do," I whispered, pickin' at the edge of the wood. "When I'm runnin' around with the boys, climbin' trees, playin' soccer... it just feels right. Like I fit in better. Like I'm... one of 'em."

I paused, and my voice got even quieter. "But then other times... I like bein' me. I like sittin' with Mama and bakin' cookies, or wearin' my dress to church and feelin'... pretty. I don't wanna give that up, neither."

I glanced up at Papa, nervous about what I'd see in his face. But there wasn't nothin' bad there—just the same steady look he always had when he was listenin' to me like I was tellin' him somethin' important.

He nodded slow. "That's okay, baby. You don't gotta pick one or the other. You can just be you. You know that, right?"

I felt my chest ease up a little, like I'd been holdin' my breath without realizin' it. "Yes, sir."

He leaned back in his chair, tappin' his knife lightly on his knee. "I don't understand it all, Emily. But I know I love you, and I'll always be proud of you—whether you're climbin' trees or bakin' pies. Or both."

I smiled, feelin' that warm, safe feelin' I always got when Papa said stuff like that.

"Thanks, Papa."

He gave me a little wink. "Now, you better get that gator lookin' right—can't have you takin' a lopsided one to school."

I laughed, the knot in my chest finally loosening all the way. We went back to our whittlin', the soft scrape of knives and the call of the frogs fillin' the night again.

And I knew, right then, that whatever I figured out about myself—Papa was gonna be right there, every step of the way.

After a little while, the quiet settled back in—just the soft scrape of our knives and the hum of the swamp. But my mind wasn't still.

I chewed on my lip, my fingers workin' at the little gator's tail. I kept thinkin' about what Papa had asked me—about wantin' to be a boy. And about all the things I didn't understand, but felt like I should.

I glanced over at him, his face calm as he worked the detail into his gator's eyes. He wouldn't laugh at me. I knew that. He never had before.

So, I took a breath and asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.

"Papa... what's it like... havin' a... a penis?"

I felt my face heat up as soon as I said it. My heart thumped like I'd done somethin' wrong.

Papa's hand paused for just a second, then he let out a quiet breath through his nose—kinda like a laugh, but not a mean one. More like he wasn't surprised.

"Well... that's a question," he said, his voice low and steady, same as always.

I looked down at my gator, embarrassed. "Sorry."

He shook his head. "Ain't nothin' to be sorry for. You're curious. That's normal."

I peeked up at him. He was still workin', carvin' smooth like it was the easiest thing in the world.

"I don't rightly know how to explain it," he said after a moment. "It's just... part of me, same as your body's part of you. Don't think about it much—it's just there."

I nodded, even though it didn't exactly clear things up.

"But... when you were a kid... did you ever think about what it'd be like not to have one?"

He thought on that, his knife slowin' a bit.

"Not really," he said, honest as ever. "I guess... I always just felt like me. Didn't wonder much about bein' different. But I reckon that's 'cause nobody ever made me feel like I could be anythin' else."

I let his words settle. They made sense, but they also made me feel a little different—like maybe I was askin' questions other kids didn't. But Papa didn't make me feel weird about it. He made me feel like it was okay.

"You think I'm weird for askin' all this?" I mumbled.

He set his knife down for a second and looked at me real serious—kind, but firm.

"Emily, you listen to me. You ain't weird. You're you. And you're figurin' things out—same as every other kid, just in your own way. That's alright. There ain't nothin' wrong with askin' questions."

I nodded, feelin' that warm, safe feelin' again. Like no matter what was goin' on in my head, Papa was right there beside me.

I didn't have all the answers. I didn't know if I'd ever feel like a boy for sure—or if I'd always just be somewhere in between.

But sittin' there on the porch, with Papa carvin' a gator beside me, it felt like maybe that was okay.

Maybe I didn't need all the answers right now.

Maybe just bein' me was enough.

After a while, the night air started to cool, and the frogs' croakin' seemed louder as the sky got darker. Mama peeked out the door once to remind us it was gettin' late.

"It's about time to get washed up, Emily," she said, her voice soft.

"Yes, ma'am," I answered, but I stayed a few more minutes, runnin' my fingers over my little wooden gator. It wasn't perfect—not like Papa's. Mine was kinda bumpy, the tail was a little too thin, and the teeth were more like little dents than sharp points. But it was mine. And I was proud of it.

"I like it," I said, holdin' it up to Papa in the dim light.

He grinned. "So do I. That's a mighty fine gator, Emily."

That made me feel good. Even if it looked a little funny, it was somethin' I made with my own hands.

I gave Papa a hug before headin' inside. I washed up, brushed my teeth, and changed into my pajamas—soft shorts and an old t-shirt that felt just right.

When I crawled into bed, I placed my little wooden gator on my bedside table, right next to the bird Papa had carved for me last year. Both of 'em sittin' there like little treasures.

I knelt down beside my bed, like I did every night, foldin' my hands together.

"Dear Lord," I whispered, "Thank You for this day, and for Mama and Papa. Thank You for lettin' me run and play and make my gator. And... thank You for lettin' me be me."

I paused, my chest feelin' tight like it always did when I got to this part.

"Sometimes I feel like I wanna be a boy. And sometimes I like bein' a girl. I don't know why it's like that, but I just... I just wanna be okay. I hope You think I'm okay."

I felt tears prickle a little in my eyes, but I wiped 'em back.

"Please help me figure it out... and please don't let Mama or Papa ever stop lovin' me, no matter what."

I sat there in the quiet, listenin' to the frogs outside, their voices driftin' through the window. That sound always made me feel calm—like the swamp was singin' me to sleep.

I crawled under the covers, huggin' my pillow tight. As my eyes got heavy, I glanced once more at my little wooden gator, sittin' proud by the bird.

I smiled.

Maybe I didn't know who I'd be tomorrow... but for tonight, I was home. And that was enough.