Sung late into the night, the words stayed with the boy who didn’t think he was listening. I have reached a place in life where I do not think clearly about the present, or the future. What I do, mostly, is remember, my thoughts triggered by some flyer flapping on a telephone pole, or a scrap of a song.
Recent Posts By Rick Bragg
A few months ago, I asked readers for advice on how to grovel. The alternative—to do right in the first place—I rejected from self-awareness. Well, proving that people have too much time on their hands, I actually got some tips. I now know three indelible things: one, the Southern man knows more about groveling than he ought to admit; two, […]
I remember a quiet so complete a lone cricket was a cacophony, a single drop of water boomed like a stick hammering a bass drum. I remember space, vast and long, remember cotton that stretched to the end of everything, interrupted only by ribbons of blacktop that led to exotic places like Leesburg, Piedmont, and Rome. I remember a dark […]