Aurora Magazine 2011

Untitled, Dawn Ferguson, WED 2017

WalkingWith PawPaw Dianne Matthews, WED 2013

I stretch my legs to match his stride, stepping in footprints shaded by the brim of an old felt hat -

left leg, right leg, left leg, right - room left over around my shoes in soft dirt punched down by a gentle giant. I run to catch up and grab his hand.

Rough and brown, scraped from toil, it swallows mine. His smell is sweat and tobacco and overripe peppers - the manly smell of hard work. I laugh when he spits tobacco juice and says, “Can you do that?” I try. Spit runs down my chin and we laugh. “Don’t tell your Maw,” he says. And I don’t.

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