Showing posts from March, 2016


Author:  Eugenia W. Collier
When I think of the home town of my youth, all that I seem to remember is dust – the brown, crumbly dust of late summer – arid, sterile dust that gets into the eyes makes them water, gets into the throat and between the toes of bare brown feet. I don’t know why I should remember only the dust.  Surely there must have been lush green lawns and paved streets under leafy shade trees somewhere in town; but memory is an abstract painting – it does not present things as they are, but rather as they feel.  And so, when I think of that time and that place, I remember only the dry September of the dirt roads and grassless yards of the shanty town where I lived.  And one other thing I remember, another incongruency of memory – a brilliant splash of sunny yellow against the dust – Miss Lottie’s marigolds.
Whenever the memory of those marigolds flashes across my mind, a strange nostalgia come with it and remains long after the picture has faded, I feel again t…