In 1950, Chaney arrived at the
grand-old house on Hampton Street,
deep in the low-country of South Carolina,
to work for my great-grandmother.
In 1960, when my twin sister and I arrived,
our great-grandmother sent Chaney
next door to our grandparent's
home to care for us.
And there Chaney remained,
year after year. She cooked
and cleaned and fussed over us as
if we were her own.
She was family and we loved her.
Chaney hummed when she ironed
and starched the sheets.
She made a savory macaroni pie
and perfectly sweet iced tea.
She called me "Miss Suzy."
I simply knew her as "Chaney."
I never knew her last name.
No one did.
Mama said, "No one thought to ask."
And therein lies the pickle of my Southern roots.
a dark storm obscured her path sending her back in time in search of traces left by a younger self her obsession, the necessity to leave clues on the path she'd traveled in preparation for lost thoughts in a future filled with chaos she is grateful for the traces that remind her of a path less traveled and clear signs of a future self destined to leave her mark