We Southerners have a way of holding onto things.
Stories. Memories. Grudges. Old photographs. Stained recipes cards. Traditions. Wedding China. Old tea towels. Rusted oil cans. Books. Politics. Yes ma’ams and no sirs. Gossip. Our vowels.
We talk and talk and talk with cups of coffee in hand out on the back porch, remembering and rewriting our stories. We wave to our neighbors. We hold onto our ancestors, inviting them to dinner every night, as we talk about what they were like and that time when Aunt X said this or Great Grandpa did that.
We listen to the rise and fall of the cicadas in the tree tops, recalling the last big hatching and how it was almost like the plague.
We say our niceties on Sunday morning at church and break out the latest gossip over lunch.
We take family time seriously, and we know that our cousins are our true allies in this life.
We gather. We reunion. We remember.