She grazed over the damp, moist field. She was determined to find him. Breathing heavy, her woolen sweater stuck to her body in the morning dew and her skin raised with bumps of tingling. Sh had got off on the Greyhound, two miles East. Measuring the road in her footsteps one step of mild pain mixed with memorable recall, she searched for Jack's grave. She had to find the place in the same way Flannery O'Connors soul tugged at her in the middle of the night. In the South, the spirits would come alive. The past and present collided. The crimson lane of her traveling blood veins had brought her to this place of rest and a settled soul. Shake the dice and she would find her history in other's pain. Pain traveled through her body, trampling over the roads of the forgotten, a tourist's finger pointed by a passing car: "That's where Jack was buried. Do you remember Johnny Cash? His voice was rich like the clay of the earth, deep like a canyon that gave me some sort of warmth that comforted your ears."... Yeah, that's my Johnny. My new found blood kin. As she strode through the streets, she found him in every shadow just like she felt Jack's bones. The point of his death in 1944 traveled to the dark ashes of her soul into a ravine that she couldn't dig out. It paralleled her sister's abandonment of her that standoffishness that was wasn't created from true grit, family lineage blood but from a certain air of disapproval. Those feelings became a turbine mixer as she ousted her own bloodline and developed that canal of fame driven attachment. The kind where you take on the mannerisms of your idols. Her gray sweater creeping on her arms, she brushed her dirty blonde hair off her face and a truck slowed down on the highway. "You wanna ride, miss?" "Yeah," she sighed and lifted her checkered suitcase into the truck.
to be continued