I come home that morning, after I been fired, and stood outside my house with my new work shoes on. The shoes my mama paid a month's worth a light bill for. I guess that's when I understood what shame was and the color of it too. Shame ain't black, like dirt, like I always thought it was. Shame be the color of a new white uniform your mother ironed all night to pay for, white without a smudge or a speck a work-dirt on it.

Write about what disturbs you, particularly if it bothers no one else.

I reckon that’s the risk you run, letting somebody else raise you chilluns.

I'm tired of the rules," I say.

She hug me around my neck, say, "You're righter than Miss Taylor." I tear up then. My cup is spilling over. Those is new words to me.

It seems like at some point you'd run out of awful.

I'm sorry, but were you dropped on your head as an infant?