Wrapped In Rain

by Charles Martin

“Down here,” she said with a sweet Southern smile and pointing straight down through the table, “iced tea is not a drink. It’s not even a refreshment. And it’s certainly not something that causes you to fall backwards into a pool.” Dixie looked around and whispered in Rocco’s direction, “It’s a religion.” She stood up, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “And you either practice or you don’t. Down here, there’s no such thing as ‘unswate tay.’ That’s a myth propagated by people who don’t come from ’round here. You can ask for it, but one of us might give you a funny look before we write you off as nothing but a couple of Yankees. Down here,” she said, pointing again with both index fingers, “tea comes one way. ‘Swate.’” She eyed Rocco again and gave a nudge. “Like us.”

Remember, there’s an inverse relationship between your head and your heart. If your head swells, your heart shrinks.

Child, I disciplined you because I loved you. Same thing with the Lord. “He chastises those he loves.” You might as well get used to it.

If Waverly was our prison, the barn was our empty tomb. And every time we flung open the doors, we rolled away the stone.

‘What’s been done to me ain’t nothing when compared to what happened in three hours on a single Friday afternoon.’”