Where the Crawdads Sing

by Delia Owens

His dad had told him many times that the definition of a real man is one who cries without shame, reads poetry with his heart, feels opera in his soul, and does what’s necessary to defend a woman.

Time ensures children never know their parents young.

And just at that second, the wind picked up, and thousands upon thousands of yellow sycamore leaves broke from their life support and streamed across the sky. Autumn leaves don’t fall; they fly. They take their time and wander on this, their only chance to soar. Reflecting sunlight, they swirled and sailed and fluttered on the wind drafts.

Faces change with life’s toll, but eyes remain a window to what was, and she could see him there.

“I guess some things can’t be explained, only forgiven or not.

He threw his weight by flinging his arms or raising his voice. A lesser male needs to shout to be noticed.