I’m twenty one. I wake up to the rain and a mission. My Uncle and I drive through the greens and the reds and the gold of the trees and the rusty-red broken down barns, down and down the cold quiet muddy roads of North Carolina. My Uncle is lecturing about Kudzu as I look constantly out the wet windows at trees and farmland overtaken into a Southern jungle by (what I was just finding out) a special little japanese vine; Kudzu. Lincoln wasn’t the only one who conquered the south.
I scratch one of the mosquito bites I had gotten last night while we were anchored in Eastham Creek. We arrived in the creek early in the afternoon. We anchored, noticing the shrimp boats in the distance and the sailboats behind us, eagerly following our example. The sun fell quickly over the still marsh, mosquitos came bearing down in the soft pinks and blues of the darkening air; masts bowing and praying with the wake of the water. One by one the anchor lights come on. One two three four five six seven eight and ours. Nine hovering lights in a dark sky…
“Do you understand That I’m saying?”
The car blurs back into vision. “Yes.”
“No you don’t. You asked about it, why don’t you just look it up on that computer of yours? You’re always on that silly thing.”
“Okay.”
I’m still distracted.
…The shrimp boats glide in the morning fog of my memory. We had woken up to silent ships sifting out for a day’s catch.
69spot 
