WhatFinger

I have never forgotten the story Jaybird told us that rainy evening. Whether it’s raining or not on my last day, I hope to die praying

I Won’t Die Sinning


I hope to die praying Shortly before sundown, we drivers finished cultivating my father’s Mississippi Delta cotton fields, and no sooner had we parked our tractors than a long, steady, soaking summer rain began drumming on the shed’s tin roof — just what the bolls needed to finish filling with fiber. As the thirsty earth drank its fill, we knew this downpour wasn’t just a “sharrain” (Dad’s way of saying “shower of rain”), but what he called a “sho-nuff, chunk-floatin’ crop maker.”
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