She walks as though she fears no fight, With sharpened words and eyes of night. Her shoulders square, her voice held low, So no one sees the hurt below. She wears her anger like a shield, A warning sign she will not yield. Her laughter rings both hard and bright, A blade she carries through the night. They call her cold, they call her strong, But never ask what made her wrong. For underneath that iron skin Lives all the pain she holds within. Her armor hides a tender heart, Still bruised from being torn apart. She learned that softness comes with cost, That open hands can still be lost. So she stands firm and will not bend, Afraid to trust, afraid to mend. But armor grows too hard to bear When no one knows the woman there. One day, perhaps, she will decide She no longer needs a place to hide. And let the world, with gentle eyes, Meet the softer woman inside.
Not the kind you keep in photographs, but the kind that lives in your hands long after you've washed them, that rises without warning when rain strikes old wood or autumn begins its slow conversation with the earth.
Brown smells like dead leaves.
Not dying—
dead.
Curled into themselves, soft with surrender, becoming the dark language roots have always understood.
Brown smells like bark, its rough skin carrying the patience of a hundred winters, its sap hidden deep, its silence older than the names we gave the trees.
Brown smells like skin kissed by the sun, rubbed each morning with cocoa butter— warm, sweet, soft as belonging.
The scent doesn't ask to be remembered.
It simply becomes the room.
Brown smells like the warm fur of an old dog, fresh from the yard, bringing home the perfume of dust, fence posts, creeks, and afternoons that seemed certain would never end.
Brown smells like the chickens in Grandma's old coop,
like warm feathers holding the morning sun, like straw and dust stirred gently beneath their feet, like cracked corn scattered across the earth by familiar hands.
It smells like fresh eggs resting in a wooden basket, like the soft clucking songs that filled the yard at dawn, like feathers, feed, and farmhouse air woven together with memories that never learned how to leave.
Brown smells like Thunderbolt's mane—
my beloved friend—
sun-warmed, braided with wind, sweet with hay, earth, and the quiet trust that only horses know how to give.
I still believe if I close my eyes long enough, I'll find my face buried there again, breathing in everything I lost without ever saying goodbye.
Brown smells like Grandma's kitchen.
Like canned figs and pears spooned carefully over fresh biscuits just pulled from the oven, where butter disappeared before it had time to become itself.
Brown smells like Granddaddy's house.
Pine walls that drank decades of smoke.
Wood stacked beside the fireplace, waiting faithfully for another cold evening, cedar and oak holding fire inside them long before the match was struck.
Brown smells like the worn leather recliner where stories settled before they became memories.
And beside it—
those weathered leather boots.
Cracked.
Bent.
Patient.
Looking as though they had walked through more years, more storms, across more earth, than I could ever hope to understand.
Brown smells like the pig pen, honest as hunger, thick with mud, sludge, feed, and the stubborn rhythm of chores that never cared whether you were tired.
It smells like Granddaddy's red chitlin' spit bucket, a smell no perfume could ever compete with, sharp enough to wrinkle a nose, familiar enough to make you smile years later.
Brown smells like Thanksgiving cane harvest at Uncle Dudette's.
Like the cane grinder turning slow, like hands weathered by generations feeding stalk after stalk into the old machine, like laughter rising with the smoke and the steam.
Brown smells like sugarcane syrup cooking over the red brick oven, boiling patiently in a great steel bowl, thickening beneath watchful eyes until sweetness becomes history.
It smells like a recipe that was never written down because it lived in the hands of those who came before—
a tradition carried through hundreds of years of family harvests, through worn aprons, calloused palms, and stories told beside the fire.
The kind of sweetness that cannot be bought.
The kind that belongs to a bloodline.
Sorely missed,
but never forgotten.
Brown smells like peanuts slowly roasting in the fire, their shells growing fragrant, filling the house with warmth before supper.
Like fresh pecans cracked open between weathered hands, their shells breaking with a sound that belongs to every Southern autumn, their rich aroma rising before the first bite.
Brown smells like Jim's Red Man tah'bacca, sweet, earthy, spiced with the long afternoon, resting in a shirt pocket that always carried a pocketknife, a handkerchief, and enough stories to outlive the daylight.
Again brown smells like work. brown smells like home. brown smells like the things that stay long enough to become family.
It is the color of trees after the leaves have spoken. Of peanuts after the fire. Of leather after the miles. Of hands after the harvest. Of houses built to outlast their builders.
Perhaps that is why brown has never smelled like something fading. It has always smelled like something holding.
Holding the warmth after the fire.
Holding the sweetness after the fruit.
Holding the footprints after the boots are gone.
Holding the love long after the people who carried it have become part of the earth they taught us to call home.
I knelt beneath a moonless sky, With weary heart and tear-filled eye. The silence broke—a voice so near, It spoke with love that conquered fear.
"My child," God said, "why hide from Me? Why guard the chains that keep you bound? I've seen the depths you cannot see, Yet still My grace and love abound."
I bowed my head. "Lord, if You knew The things I've done, the shame I've grown... The darkest hour I've stumbled through, You'd leave me here to walk alone."
He answered softly, "Do you think Your darkest night outshines My light? The stars themselves begin to blink, Yet dawn still follows every night."
"Then give Me," said the Father's voice, "The hour you fear, the grief you hide. Release it now; make Heaven's choice. No longer keep your pain inside."
I whispered, "Lord, it's stained with sin, With broken dreams and endless blame. I've locked the door and trapped it in; I'm far too crushed to speak its name."
He smiled, "I know it's every thread. Before you breathed, I knew it all. I bore its weight, its tears, its dread, So you would never bear its fall."
"Then take it," cried my trembling soul, "My darkest hour, my deepest scar. Take every shattered, broken whole, And heal the places where they are."
He reached with hands once pierced for me, And every shadow lost its claim. The prison doors swung wide and free; Love called me gently by my name.
"Remember this," He softly said, "When darkness whispers you're alone: The place where all your hope seemed dead Became the ground where grace had grown."
Now when the midnight clouds appear, And sorrow knocks upon my door, I hear His faithful voice draw near:
"My child, give Me your darkest hour— I'll fill it with My endless power. Give Me the night you cannot bear, And you'll discover I was there. The cross was built for moments such as these; Now place your burden down—and rest in Me."
Sue stands at her kitchen counter, cutting a piece of cheddar from the block she keeps there— not cold from the refrigerator, but soft beneath the knife, warm enough to release its sharp, familiar scent.
She lifts it to her mouth, and before she can finish chewing, the kitchen fades. She is a little girl again in the early seventies, standing beside Mydaddy on the front porch of his old Cracker-style wooden house, where the floorboards complain beneath every footstep and summer settles over everything like a hand that will not lift.
Mydaddy sits in a wooden chair, his back resting into years, his shirt dampened at the collar, the day humming around him with cicadas and heat.
Sue stands close beside him, two cornrows braided around the sides of her head, her golden light-brown cheeks reddened by the summer sun.
In his shirt pocket, he always carries a block of cheddar cheese, wrapped in wax paper and softened by the warmth of his body.
A pocketknife rests in his pants pocket, but he does not reach for it.
He unwraps the cheese He peels back the wax and pinches off a piece with his fingers.
No plate. No napkin. No ceremony.
Just cheese— warm, soft, a little greasy— pressed into her waiting hand.
Then he pinches off another for himself.
Perhaps that cheese sustained him, carried close to his heart through long afternoons, through labor and hunger, through all the things a man did not speak of to the children who loved him.
Perhaps each small piece was his way of saying, Here, baby. Take some. There is enough for you, too.
On the porch, Sue eats beside Mydaddy, the cheddar melting against her tongue, the red wax curled in his broad palm, the sun burning gold across the yard.
She does not know yet that memory chooses the smallest things to keep— a wooden chair, two braids, a weathered hand, a pocket warmed block of cheese.
Back in her kitchen, Sue opens her eyes.
The years have carried away the porch, the house, the chair, and Mydaddy’s hands.
But the cheese remains.
Soft on the counter. Warm in her mouth. Good as it ever was.
And for one quiet moment, Mydaddy is beside her again, pinching off a piece and placing it in her hand.
Simona A. Brinson
Photo by Unknown Family Member of MyDaddy, Auntie Pearline, and Grandma, August 1975, Ashville, FL
Looking at this picture now, my first thought is: I wonder if there is a piece of cheese wrapped in parchment paper in one of those pockets. The other pocket definitely holds some tah’bacca.
I have become overcome by a swell of emotions and tears have welled and fallen. As I look into his eyes, I wonder about all the things those eyes witnessed but never spoke of—all the history, hardship, love, and loss he carried silently within him, as he was not a man of many words.
My granddaddy's name was Dave Brinson. He was born on January 1, 1894, and died on November 22, 1989, at the age of ninety-five. He would have been eighty-one years old when this photograph was taken.
He was the love of my life.
He was my sun and I his moon.
Unlike Sue, I called him Granddaddy because I am a generation behind her. The only grand-children that call him Granddaddy are myself, my cousin Gwen and my brother Sam, who grew up alongside the great-grand-childen. His children and most of my older cousins called him “Mydaddy.” I have always wondered who started that moniker. It was probably one of my aunties—a small child’s attempt to claim him that somehow became his name for generations. But I understand the instinct to claim him. Even now, when I am talking with other family members, I sometimes say “my granddaddy,” as though he belongs only to me. I remember having a conversation with my cousin Niece and saying something about “My granddaddy....”
She quickly replied, “Who you talkin’ ’bout—my granddaddy?”
“No,” I answered, just as seriously. “I’m talkin’ ’bout my granddaddy!”
Then we both fell out laughing. Oh, the possessiveness of the many over one man. We all claimed him as our own, and that alone tells you how deeply he was loved.
My grandma's name was Siller Sillars Brinson. She was on born in October 16, 1902 and died on June 19, 1976, at the age of seventy-three. I do not remember much about her because I was only six years old when she died. The only clear memory I have of her is the sound of her voice. She was soft-spoken, and the only words I remember her saying are, “Nice, nice baby.” My mother says she said that about all her grandbabies.
My Auntie Elease has a recording of Grandma’s voice on a cassette tape. Perhaps one day I can have it digitized and upload it here. It would be lovely to hear her voice again—to hear her say, “Nice, nice baby,” and discover whether the voice preserved in my memory sounds anything like the one on the tape.
Then there is my Auntie Pearline—my favorite auntie and, in my completely unbiased opinion, the best auntie ever. She was born on July 21, 1943, and would have been about thirty-two years old in this photograph. Today is her 83rd birthday.
As I remember it, sometime after the picture was taken, my grandmother suffered another stroke, and Auntie Pearl decided to move back home to take care of her. Even though I was very young, I remember the night she announced that she was leaving.
Our family had gathered in the living room of our apartment at Gordon River Apartments in Naples, Florida. I listened intently as the adults talked, trying to understand what was happening. When I heard Auntie Pearl say she would be leaving in the morning, I quietly went into my bedroom and packed my little light-blue, hard-sided suitcase.
A few minutes later, I reentered the living room with the suitcase in tow.
“I’m ready!” I announced.
The entire room erupted into hearty laughter, but I could not understand what they found so funny. I stood there as serious as a five-year-old could possibly be, staring at them and wondering what was wrong with everyone. There was nothing humorous about the occasion. Auntie Pearl was leaving, and naturally, I was going with her.
I do not remember who finally broke the news to me. It was probably my daddy. Nonetheless, someone gently explained that I could not go with Auntie Pearl this time.
I looked only at her, waiting for her to tell me they were mistaken. I searched her face for some sign that she would take me with her after all.
Instead, I saw the confirmation in her eyes.
My heart broke into a million tiny pieces.
I began to cry, lowered my head, and turned back toward my bedroom, dragging my little blue suitcase behind me.
That was the saddest day of all my five years.
It was my first heartbreak.
And so, one photograph becomes a doorway. Sue’s memory of Mydaddy pinching cheese from a block carried me back to Granddaddy, to the possibility of cheese tucked inside his pocket, and to all the love that still gathers around his name. That is the power of memory: one small detail—a voice, a suitcase, a piece of cheese—can awaken an entire world and return the people we love to us, if only for a moment.
~In Loving Memory of my Grandaddy and my Grandma and in honor of my Auntie~
Like fresh-cut grass clinging to Daddy's work clothes, to the bottom of his boots, to the quiet pride he carried through the back door before he carried himself.
The whole house knew he was home before it heard his voice.
Green smells like that.
Green smells like collard greens simmering slow with hammocks a whisper of smoke, filling every room until hunger itself begins to soften.
Like cabbage meeting in hot pan of fatback, its sweetness unfolding one layer at a time, like a garden remembering that fire, too, can be gentle.
Green smells like mint.
Sharp enough to wake the tongue before it ever arrives there.
Like the first breath after rain, cool enough to rinse the dust from a tired afternoon.
Green smells like basil, all pepper and sunshine, its leaves bruised gently between curious fingers, releasing a fragrance that feels less like an herb and more like laughter floating from an open kitchen window.
Green smells like tomato vines—
not the fruit,
but the leaves,
wild and bright, their scent staining your hands with the unmistakable perfume of summer itself.
Green smells like cucumbers split fresh from the garden, like celery snapping clean, like green apples holding equal parts sweetness and surprise.
Green smells like limes.
Bright.
Electric.
A small sun hidden inside green skin, waiting for a knife to awaken the room.
Green smells like pine needles warming beneath July light, like rosemary, like parsley, like dill brushing against your sleeve as you reach too quickly through the herb bed.
Green smells like leaves high in an oak tree, busy making shade, busy translating sunlight into something birds can sing inside.
Like ferns uncurling after rain.
Like moss holding the memory of every quiet morning the forest has ever known.
Green smells like peas still tucked inside their pods, like green beans snapping between careful hands, like avocado, like kiwi, like fresh spinach washed in cold water until it gleams.
Green smells like life before anyone gives it another name.
green smells like growing. green smells like breathing. green smells like the ordinary miracles we almost forget to notice— the yard after it's been mowed, the garden before dinner, the breeze moving through leaves, the windows opened wide, someone calling you inside because the meal is ready, because the day is ending, because love, more often than not, has always smelled a little bit like green.
I think love sees everything— the cracks, the excuses, the trembling hands, the promises stitched together with loose thread...
and whispers,
"Maybe this time."
Because loving blind isn't about missing the warning signs.
It's about believing they're just temporary.
It's convincing yourself that red flags are only sunsets if you squint hard enough.
It's saying, "I know who they could be," while slowly forgetting who you've always been. But...
God, there is something beautiful about loving without armor.
About handing someone your heartbeat before asking if they know how fragile it is.
Because sometimes…
they do.
Sometimes they hold it like it's the last warm thing left in the world.
Sometimes they memorize the language of your silence, kiss the corners where your anxiety hides, and somehow... make breathing feel less like surviving.
That's the danger.
The same blindness that lets you fall is the blindness that lets someone catch you.
Or drop you.
There is no guarantee.
Love has never signed contracts.
It only asks,
"Are you willing?"
And we are.
Again.
and Again.
and Again.
Until one day you wake up and realize you've been setting yourself on fire just to keep someone else warm.
And ashes…
don't hug back.
That's the ugly side.
The side where your reflection starts looking like a stranger because you've spent so long becoming everything except yourself.
Where "I'm okay" becomes the most practiced lie you've ever told.
Where loyalty turns into self-abandonment wearing a prettier name.
But here's what nobody tells you.
The answer isn't to stop loving.
It isn't to build walls so high that nothing hurts.
Because nothing hurts in empty rooms.
Nothing grows there either.
The lesson…
isn't to love less.
It's to love with your eyes open.
To choose someone who doesn't ask you to shrink so they can feel bigger.
Someone who treats your heart like a home, not a hotel.
Because real love doesn't need blindness.
It needs courage.
The courage to see someone exactly as they are...
and still choose them.
The courage to let someone see every imperfect piece of you...
and walk away if they choose to break what they promised to protect.
Maybe that's what growing up is.
Realizing love isn't blind.
We are.
Until experience teaches our eyes how to stay open...
Orange smells like citrus bursting from a freshly peeled orange, tiny drops of juice sparkling in the air before the first sweet bite.
It smells like pumpkins resting in autumn fields, their earthy scent mixing with cool October breezes and crunchy leaves beneath your feet.
Orange is the smell of cinnamon and cloves swirling through warm pumpkin pie, of toasted marshmallows and glowing campfires on crisp fall evenings.
It smells like marigolds blooming in the sunshine, their bright petals dancing while butterflies drift from flower to flower.
Orange carries the scent of ripe peaches and juicy cantaloupe, fresh carrots pulled from the garden, and sweet potatoes baking slowly in the oven.
It smells like sunsets warming the sky with glowing color, like laughter around a backyard bonfire, and the smoky sweetness that lingers long after the flames grow quiet.
If colors could breathe, orange would fill the world with warmth, spice, sweetness, and wonder— like autumn wrapped in a single breath, bright enough to see, gentle enough to remember.
Red smells like strawberries warming beneath the summer sun, their sweet fragrance floating through the garden while bees hum from flower to flower.
It smells like crisp apples fresh from the orchard, their cool, juicy scent bursting with every bite.
Red is the smell of roses, soft petals opening at dawn, their perfume drifting on the breeze like a quiet song.
It smells like cinnamon swirling through warm apple pie, cherries ripening on the tree, and raspberry jam spread across fresh-baked bread.
Red carries the scent of a crackling campfire, glowing embers dancing into the night, marshmallows turning golden, and smoke clinging gently to your clothes.
It smells like peppermint candy at holiday celebrations, a bright, cool breeze mixed with the warmth of laughter and happy voices.
If colors could breathe, red would fill the air with sweetness, warmth, spice, and adventure— like a heart beating with excitement, a sunset glowing across the sky, and love wrapped in every breath.
Yellow smells like sunshine warming a quiet field, where wildflowers lift their faces and sway in the summer breeze.
It smells like the first slice of lemon, bright and fresh, its citrus scent filling the air before the juice reaches your tongue.
Yellow is butter melting across warm toast, honey dripping slowly from the comb, sweet with the fragrance of a thousand tiny flowers.
It smells like daffodils after a spring rain, fresh hay drying beneath a blue sky, and sunflowers stretching toward the afternoon light.
Yellow carries the scent of ripe bananas on the kitchen table, golden popcorn at the movie theater, and sweet corn roasting at a summer picnic.
It smells like a brand-new box of crayons, fresh pencils on the first day of school, and pages of a favorite book waiting to be opened.
If colors could breathe, yellow would fill the world with warmth, sweetness, fresh air, and the quiet feeling of happiness— like sunshine you can smell before you even open your eyes.
My Life In Word 