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 joy begins where the first light slips through the longleaf pines of North Florida, painting the forest floor in ribbons of gold. Before the roads awaken and the world remembers its hurry, I find peace in the hush of creation—in the rustle of palmettos, the chorus of songbirds, and the gentle breeze that carries the scent of pine, cedar, and rain.
I find my joy along the winding banks of the Suwannee River, where dark waters move with quiet purpose beneath towering cypress trees. Their weathered trunks stand like faithful guardians, while Spanish moss sways from ancient live oaks, dancing to a rhythm only the wind understands. The river does not rush, and in its steady flow, it reminds me that there is beauty in moving through life with grace instead of haste.
My heart feels at home on sandy trails where deer leave fresh tracks in the morning and wildflowers bloom without seeking admiration. The rolling hills of North Florida rise gently beneath wide-open skies, offering peaceful overlooks where hawks circle overhead and clouds drift like unhurried prayers. Here, every path feels like an invitation to slow my steps and open my heart.
The crystal-clear springs are among my greatest joys. Their cool waters, bubbling from deep within the earth, shimmer with impossible shades of blue and green. Beneath their glass-like surface, fish glide effortlessly while turtles drift through waving grasses. Standing beside these springs, I am reminded that the purest things often flow from hidden places, quietly nourishing everything around them.
As evening settles over the countryside, another kind of beauty awakens. Tree frogs begin their chorus from the wetlands, crickets weave their endless song through the fields, and fireflies scatter tiny lanterns across the dusk. The setting sun washes the sky in soft shades of amber, rose, and lavender before giving way to a blanket of stars that shine brighter than any city lights ever could.
Even the summer thunderstorms bring joy. Dark clouds gather over the pines, thunder rolls across the fields, and warm rain soaks the earth with life. When the storm passes, the air feels washed clean, carrying the rich fragrance of wet soil and fresh leaves. The world seems to breathe again, and so do I.
Nature here asks for nothing except my presence. It teaches me through every season, every river bend, and every quiet sunrise. The steadfast pines speak of resilience. The flowing river whispers of faith. The ancient oaks remind me that strength is found in deep roots, while every wildflower blooming along a country road proclaims that beauty does not need permission to flourish.
This is my joy—not found in crowded places or hurried moments, but in the sacred stillness of North Florida. It lives in the call of an osprey soaring above the Suwannee, in the cool embrace of a spring-fed stream, in the shade of centuries-old live oaks, and in the gentle peace that settles over the land as daylight fades.
Here, surrounded by God's creation, I remember who I am. The forests quiet my restless thoughts. The rivers carry away what I no longer need. The open sky lifts my eyes with hope. In this place of pine forests, clear springs, winding rivers, and endless horizons, my soul discovers that joy has never been far away. It has always been waiting for me in the heart of North Florida.
She rises where the quiet light is born, not asking permission from the morning sky, but opening anyway— petal by petal, as if the world itself had called her name. The wind moves around her gently, as though it remembers something sacred it once forgot. Even time slows here, hesitating at the edge of color too vivid to pass without notice. She does not try to shine. She simply becomes what she is— a soft declaration that beauty does not need applause to be real. Bees arrive like small prayers drawn to what they cannot explain, and the earth beneath her roots holds steady, as if proud to be the ground that supports such becoming. And when evening leans in close, she does not disappear— she gathers the last light, holds it briefly within herself, and teaches the dark how to remember brightness.
My Life In Word 