A letter from Papaw — Before light. Kitchen floor, waiting on my knees to decide.

Went down easy this morning. Reached for the skillet under the stove and my knees said down we go, and I went. Sat there a full minute figuring on how to get back up.

Said grace right there on the linoleum. Seemed like the place for it. Hank came over and put his chin on my leg like I'd finally gotten sensible.

Got to thinking about a fellow at the mill. Sat two spots down from me on the line for eleven years and decided early on he didn't like me. I never did know why. I'd say good morning and he'd look through me like I'd asked him for money. Held a grudge for something I never did.

Used to eat at me. Ruth would tell me let it go and I couldn't. Mama used to sing in the kitchen — There is a fountain filled with blood — and I'd hear that hymn and think about him and want to say I ain't done nothing to you.

Brother Wallace preached one Sunday: some folks are going to make you the reason for something that was theirs before you got there. Forty years of him and that one stuck.

Here's what I know now, sitting on my kitchen floor: that man's face I still see, and I still didn't do a thing to earn it. His look wasn't a mirror. It was his own window, and I kept trying to clean it.

Going to get up now. Skillet's still under the stove.

Love,