Southern Sunlight -15

The bus pulled up our long dirt driveway, tires kickin' up little splashes from all the rain puddles left behind.
The sky was still gray, but the worst of the storm had passed, leavin' the air feelin' damp and heavy.

I stepped off, my feet squishin' in the soft, wet ground, and I could already see Mama standin' on the porch, wipin' her hands on her apron like she always did when she saw me comin' home.

Except this time, her face scrunched up in confusion.

"You're home early, baby," she called out, steppin' down onto the porch steps.
"What happened?"

I hurried up to her, wipin' my damp hands on my overalls.
"The power went out at school," I said, tryin' to sound serious like Mr. Johnson had, but it just made me grin.
"They had to let us out early."

Mama raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'll be. Storm must've hit worse over there than it did here."

She looked me over real quick—mamas always do that, like checkin' to see if you brought the rain inside with you—then gave a little nod.

"Well, you're home now," she said, pullin' me in for a quick hug.
"You hungry? Or did they at least feed you before they kicked you out?"

I laughed, huggin' her back.
"I had pizza day—rectangle pizza, Mama. The good kind."

Mama rolled her eyes but smiled. "Lord, y'all love that cardboard pizza. Come on inside. You can help me peel taters for supper."

I kicked off my damp shoes by the door and followed her into the kitchen, feelin' glad to be home early—like I'd won a few extra hours of freedom.

As we stepped into the kitchen, I wiped my hands on my overalls again, grinnin' up at Mama.

"What are we makin'? Frog leg soup?"
I asked, hopin' real hard.

Mama stopped mid-step, turnin' to give me that look—you know, the one mamas give when you've said somethin' wild.

"Lord, no," she said, shakin' her head but smilin' all the same.
"We're havin' SOS."

I groaned, throwin' my head back like the world was endin'.

"Same Old Slop?!"
I said it like it was the worst punishment ever, even though I kinda liked it.

Mama laughed, wavin' a wooden spoon at me.
"You hush, now. You know you love it. Hamburger gravy over mashed taters—it's good eatin'."

I tried to keep my pretend pout, but my stomach had other plans—it let out a growl loud enough that even Mama heard.

"Mhm, that's what I thought," she said, goin' back to the stove.
"Now, grab that peeler and get to work on these taters."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, grinnin' as I pulled a chair over to the counter.
I knew supper was gonna be good—Same Old Slop and all.

I grabbed the peeler and one of the big ol' taters from the pile Mama set on the counter.
The peel curled off in thin ribbons, droppin' into the bowl like little brown snakes.

Before I knew it, I was hummin'—then singin', kinda makin' it up as I went:

♫
"Taters in the pot, taters in the pan,
Mash 'em up with butter, feed 'em to a man.
Taters when it's rainin', taters in the sun,
Eat 'em up for supper, taters sure are fun!"
♫

Mama snorted out a laugh, tryin' not to spill the gravy she was stirrin'.

"What on earth are you singin'?" she asked, wipin' tears from the corner of her eye.

I grinned, feelin' mighty proud of myself.

"It's my tater song, Mama. I'm writin' it right now."

"Well, keep goin', then," she said, still smilin' as she added salt to the gravy.
"This is better than the radio."

So I kept on, makin' up verses as I peeled:

♫
"Taters with some gravy, taters in a stew,
Fry 'em in the skillet, crispy just for you.
Taters with my Mama, taters with my Pop,
Eat 'em all together—taters never stop!"
♫

Mama shook her head, laughin' so hard she had to step away from the stove for a minute.

"You're gonna have me singin' 'taters never stop' in my sleep!"

We both laughed, the kitchen feelin' warmer than ever,
like the rain outside couldn't touch us in here—inside where the taters, the gravy, and the singin' made everythin' feel right.

But we weren't just stoppin' with taters.

"Hand me that flour, sugar," Mama said, noddin' toward the canister on the shelf.

"We makin' biscuits?" I perked up, my eyes lightin' up.

"Of course we are," she said. "Can't have SOS without biscuits."

I grinned wide—Mama's biscuits were the best in the world.
Fluffy, buttery, and perfect for soakin' up every bit of gravy.

While the taters boiled, and the gravy simmered, Mama set to work mixin' the dough—flour, buttermilk, and lard.
Her hands moved quick, like she'd done it a thousand times (because she had).

I watched her cut the biscuits with an old tin can, pressin' them onto a greased pan.

"What else we havin'?" I asked, wipin' my hands on a towel.

Mama thought for a second, then shrugged.
"I pulled some okra from the freezer—gonna fry that up. And I got some greens, too."

Fried okra. Collard greens. Biscuits. Mashed taters. Hamburger gravy.

I felt my stomach growl so loud Mama heard it.

"You better save that hunger for supper," she said, grinnin' at me.

"I will," I promised—but my mouth was already waterin'.

Just as Mama slid the biscuits into the oven, and I was mashin' the taters with butter and a splash of milk, we heard the low rumble of Papa's truck rollin' up the driveway.

I peeked out the window, seein' him park under the big oak tree like he always did.
But he was home earlier than usual, and it made my heart skip a little—like it always did when he showed up before I expected.

"Papa's home!" I called out, wipin' my hands on my overalls.

Mama glanced at the clock.
"Well, that's good timin'," she said. "Food's just about ready."

The front door creaked open, and Papa stepped in, shakin' the rain off his hat.

"Somethin' smells good in here," he said, grinnin' as he hung his hat by the door.

I rushed over, huggin' him around the waist.

"You're home early, Papa!"

He ruffled my hair, his hand rough and warm.
"Boss let us out after lunch. Storm slowed everythin' down anyway. Figured I'd come home, see what my girls were up to."

"Well, we've been cookin' up a storm in here too," Mama said, wipin' her hands on her apron.
"You're just in time."

Papa sniffed the air, lookin' around like he could already taste it.

"That SOS?" he asked, his eyes twinklin'.

I groaned.
"Same Old Slop."

He laughed.
"That's the best kind of slop I ever had."

Mama shook her head, but she was smilin' too.

"Got biscuits, fried okra, and greens, too," she added, pointin' toward the stove.

Papa rubbed his hands together.
"Now that's a meal."

The oven timer dinged, and Mama pulled out the golden biscuits, the smell of butter fillin' the whole kitchen.

We set the table quick—plates, forks, sweet tea—and gathered around.

Papa bowed his head, and we all joined hands like we always did.

"Lord, we thank You for this food, for the hands that made it, and for bringin' us all together safe today. We ask You to bless our home, and our family, and keep watch over Emily's wrist—help it heal up right. Amen."

"Amen," Mama and I said together.

We all dug in, and the food was everything I hoped it would be.
The gravy was thick and savory, soakin' into the mashed taters just right.
The biscuits were fluffy, and the fried okra had that perfect crunch.
Every bite felt like a hug from the inside.

But then—disaster struck.

I shoved a forkful of taters into my mouth too quick, tryin' to catch up with Papa talkin' 'bout his day, and my tongue got caught right between my teeth.

Hard.

I froze, wincin' as the pain shot through my mouth, and before I could stop it... it just slipped out.

"Damn it!"

The room went dead quiet.

My eyes went wide—real wide—and my fork clattered onto the plate.

Mama's head whipped around so fast you'd think I said I'd set the house on fire.
Papa blinked—his fork halfway to his mouth—like he wasn't sure he'd heard right.

I clamped my hands over my mouth, cheeks burnin' hotter than the stove.

"I—I bit my tongue," I mumbled, voice muffled behind my fingers.

Mama's mouth pressed into a line, but her eyes had that mix of shock and tryin' not to laugh.

Papa set his fork down, lookin' at me real serious, but there was a twitch at the corner of his lips too.

"Emily Ann," he said, usin' my middle name so I knew I was right on the edge of trouble,
"We don't talk like that at this table."

"I know," I rushed out, tears prickin' my eyes—part from the pain, part from embarrassment.
"It just—it hurt so bad—it jumped out before I could stop it."

Mama sighed, wipin' her hands on her napkin.

"Well... let's just say you learned somethin' tonight," she said, givin' me a pointed look.
"You keep bitin' that tongue, and it's liable to get you in more trouble than just hurtin'."

Papa leaned back a bit in his chair, his eyes kind but firm.

"What does Matthew twelve-thirty-six say?" he asked, his voice calm but expectin'.

I looked down at my plate, but the words were right there in my heart—from all those times we'd read together.

"I tell you, on the day of judgment people will give account for every careless word they speak," I said, my voice soft but sure.

Papa nodded slowly, his expression easin' up some.

"That's right. Words got power, baby girl. Even when you're hurtin'. Especially then."

I nodded back, feelin' the knot of shame in my chest loosen just a little.

"Next time, you just say 'ouch,'" he added, his lips twitchin' like he was holdin' back a grin.
"That works just fine."

"Yes, sir," I said.

Mama took a sip of her sweet tea, lookin' between us like she was glad it was settled.

"Well, now that we've all had a lesson with supper," she said, smilin' just a little,
"Let's finish before it gets cold."

We all picked our forks back up, the warmth returnin' to the table, but I held onto Papa's words—about power, about thinkin' before speakin'.

And about how I'd probably never forget Matthew twelve-thirty-six for as long as I lived.

The rain had slowed to nothin' more than a gentle tap on the leaves, like the earth was takin' a deep breath after the storm.

Papa grabbed his coffee mug and, to my surprise, his guitar—the one he kept tucked in the corner of the livin' room. He didn't play often, but when he did, it always felt special. Like it meant somethin'.

We settled on the porch, me sittin' cross-legged, watchin' him tune the strings with that easy patience he had with everythin'.

I was glad—real glad—he hadn't given me a woopin' for that naughty word at dinner. I knew plenty of kids that would've gotten one, no questions asked.

"You ain't mad at me, are you, Papa?" I asked, my voice small.

He gave the E string a little twist, plucked it, nodded, then looked at me with that steady gaze.

"Nah, I ain't mad. I know it slipped. But you remember what I told you, right?"

"Yes, sir," I said quickly. "No using bad words."

He smiled, soft-like. "That's my girl."

Then he started pickin'—real light, just a slow, easy melody that drifted out into the damp air. It wasn't a song I knew, but it felt like one that belonged there, with the frogs singin' back from the swamp.

I leaned my head against the porch post, eyes half-closed, listenin' to Papa's guitar, the rain, and the world settlin' down for the night.

After a few minutes, he started hummin'—deep and low, like the song was more for him than me. The kind of hum that made you feel warm inside, like you belonged right where you were.

"Papa... how'd you learn to play like that?" I asked, my voice quiet so I wouldn't mess up the moment.

He kept strummin', but he smiled.

"My granddaddy—he taught me. Same guitar, same porch, not so different from this evenin' right here."

I blinked, lookin' at the worn wood of the guitar. It looked old—well-loved—but I never knew it had been Hank's. That made it feel different, like I was hearin' somethin' passed down through the family.

"He was good with his hands—buildin', fishin', pickin' strings. Said music was just another kind of buildin'. You put the right notes together, and you make somethin' folks can feel."

I thought about that as he played. I liked the sound of that—makin' somethin' folks could feel.

"You think... you could teach me sometime?" I asked, feelin' a little shy.

Papa paused, lookin' down at me, then nodded.

"I'd like that, Emily. We'll start soon—once your wrist is better."

I smiled, tuckin' that promise away in my heart like a secret treasure.

We sat out there a good while, not sayin' much more. Just listenin'—to the guitar, the frogs, the quiet. Every now and then, Mama peeked out the window, smilin' at us like she knew it was one of those moments you hold onto.

When the rain finally stopped, and the sky turned that deep, dark blue, Papa let the last note hang in the air before settin' the guitar aside.

"Time to get ready for bed, baby girl," he said, his voice soft.

"Yes, sir."

I stood up, stretchin', but before I went inside, I leaned over and hugged him—tight.

"Love you, Papa."

He hugged me back, his hand restin' gentle on the back of my head.

"Love you too, Emily."

I went inside feelin' safe—like nothin' bad could touch me as long as Papa was there.

And maybe... someday, I'd be strummin' that same guitar, sittin' on this same porch—tellin' my kids about their great-great-granddaddy Hank.

But that was a long ways off. For now, I just wanted to get better at my zero times tables and figure out what happened next in Matilda.

Tomorrow was a new day.

And I was ready for it.