Sometime during my freshman year of college, when I was living in a dorm room in San Antonio and was so depressed that I was considering joining a Baptist sorority and was reading Gone With the Wind at the campus Starbucks every afternoon, I absconded to my Granny & Papa’s house for a weekend. I brought with me a little voice recorder, probably the first one I ever had, and I sat with my grandparents at their breakfast table and asked them questions.
Here’s what I remember about that evening: I remember asking my Papa when he knew he was in love with my Granny. Old men who read the Bible their whole lives are prone to accidental poetry. And he said something so beautiful about an evening in a corn patch, and a big, full moon that came up, and I can hear the crackle in his voice and I can see that blue moonlight, but these are only memories (one true, one borrowed), because the voice recorder went missing somewhere in the shuffle of my early twenties.
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