by Annette Marie Hyder 

If memories flash across the dark skies of one’s subconscious, between rain clouds of association, and discharge meaning while lighting up the psyche, the let the lightning fly. If the imprint left on one’s retina of recall is only afterimage, the memory of memory, a thing of fiction, then let the fiction flash.

I
Lightning at Night: Gardenia Petals

Every summer morning mother picked gardenia flowers, cluttering the fridge with water-filled jelly jars boasting bouquets. Every evening she plucked them, like exotic chickens, scattered their petals onto our sheets, cool and creamy soft against my skin. I fell asleep crushing her benedictions.

We had no air-conditioning but we had electric fans and gardenia petals. Mother was young and pretty with a French nose that she quietly suffered. I loved the way it said "arrogance" where she never would.

Some nights, winds would blow the curtains wide. Hurricane winds we called them as they rustled the palm fronds, bullied mangoes from our tree. Those nights Mother would sing us old French songs her mother had sung to her, lonely songs filled with regret. That’s when I hated her big nose as much as she did. It got in the way, wouldn’t let her smile climb up into her eyes.

It is summer, but I live in a colder place. I have little occasion to remember electric fans and goodnight wishes scattered on sheets. But when I do, I think of tears falling, like petals from a flower in the wind.

II

Out of the Blue: Aunt Effie Comes to Lunch

Her self-important step fanfared her arrival and her pompous clicking gait never failed to leave marks, muddy prints and residue from the garbage she dragged in.

Her handbag overflowed with rubbish, Kleenex, coupons and coins; trembled a little as she dropped it on the counter. And so did she as she opened her mouth, equally stuffed with cheap and banal things to spill in a heap on our afternoon table — like some tacky pile of pennies left for the waitress at a lunch-break cafe.

Mother sat and suffered her outpourings, had contention with her tea, for as long as she could stand it, finally excusing herself to get back to her chores.

Aunt Effie insisted on accompanying her even in the high heels she inevitably wore. She had plenty of dirty laundry to hang on our clothesline beside mom’s clean sheets.

III

Lightning Strike: Scrub Palm Skirmish

Scrub palms crackle, lance across my skin; spring together militantly as we press further in. Little brother’s clammy forehead is pressed against my sweaty back. He hugs my waist and stumbles, weary in my tracks.

The scrub palms march into a forest of pine trees; skirmish beneath branches stirred by stealthy breeze. In one of these pockets of scrub resistance we hide, crouch and watch; are rewarded for our ability to bide.

Comes a suitor of our sister’s and he is not alone and she is not with him. We gather information for our mission to oust him from our family that he is not yet in.

The delicate smell of orange blossoms lulls our enemy to sleep. Slices of white-hot sunlight pine-needle down, further exposing him. And we are like banana spiders complacently content to watch and gather little bodies of information and wrap him in our thread. Our coup is successful and bloody in the nails she rakes across his face. But the ammunition used was provided by him.

###

and now, the rest of Annette’s SLS:
…The atmosphere is casual and filled with casual beauty. There are real live alligators not just plastic tourist gimmick ones and real live flamingos to match the fake ones on the lawns. And I guess that is a good symbol for the South I grew up in. So real it spawns imitations, so genuine it looks fake to the uninitiated (much like the way a tourist at a nature walk zoo will always think the alligators are fake because they look so real and yet are motionless until they lunge or bellow). The mix of the genuine with the disingenuous is the calling card of my south. Sunsets so surreally beautiful, they beat the picture postcard ones, Southern hands down.

And yes grits and yes fresh-squeezed orange juice and yes sugar cane sold as a treat to kids in this one little town that I can’t even remember the name of but that we stumbled across out Alligator Alley way — stumbled on to it at one in the morning and the place was small and the place was hopping. One A.M. and the residents had just started to get their party on in the only bar that was right on adjacent to the towns only gas station too. And we were scared we were going to get jumped or worse and never heard from again because even though we’re Southern, we sure weren’t from their neck of the woods and they were a different kind of Southern. Which is to say that we ended up dancing the dawn in with them and got to see how the kids bought that sugar cane for candy. And sugar cane is big. It looks like bamboo and it’s startling green and they whack it open and take some sweetness out or just suck on a piece till they’re done.

And that’s Southern too. Florida Southern. Whack it and take it or suck it sweet. Your choice. Really, I could just go on and on about my Southern Florida. I look around me and find myself out of my reverie — my sunny mental sojourn in Florida was too brief. I am back in Minnesota where even with the fire of imagination and the fuel of enthusiasm, a warm coat is still recommended. And I didn’t mention, but I am a writer. And so, my most ardent thoughts continue to be enamored with words — courting them continuously.

A few Southern writing lessons I’d like to pass on to others (we Southern girls know that we have a lot of hard earned smarts to share): Lipstick can, in an emergency, be used to capture your muse on whatever piece of stray paper makes itself available — a "swak" poem, so to speak. It’s really cool to have a sister who shares your passion for writing — even if you sometimes get a "crush" on the same concept. And Southern girls are very fashionable and I’m giving you this stuff for free — never wear your Blahnik boots in freshly salted snow.