The morning rain pours down like heavy tears, To wake a memory lost for all the years. I hold a piece of plastic and metal in the garage, amidst the cardboard and the inventory of a routine evening, and feel the sudden jolt of a lightning rod. There it sat, on the very top of the plastic tub a tiny, forgotten echo from a CVS aisle in Griffin, where my father once laughed out loud, seeing

Yes, I used AI to generate a graphic for the blog. Get over it! Today, the third anniversary of Pop’s death, I am quiet. I am reflecting on a journey that took me from a hospital room in Corinth to the depths of a broken heart, and finally, to a place of reclaimed grace. I have fought to be a phoenix rising from the ashes, and today I stand on solid ground. . The First Year: The Battle and the Break The first year was defined by a brutal fight for Pop’s dignity. I had failed

“ERROR ERROR” BASED ON A TRUE STORY! It was warm weather in 1976, and I was being my usual mischievous self, or as to quote my MeeMaw, “Fanny is being bad (again).” My mother cleaned me up for the third time that morning. Hair in pigtails with green bows, she put me down with a pop on the tush to stay put. My brother, Robert, who is two years older, snickered. The minute she left the room; I showed him what my front teeth could do. “Mom, Fanny bit me… AGAIN!” he cried, biting