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Every Sunday · Mother Baptiste

Sunday Service

Mother Baptiste walks it over. Every Sunday morning, same porch, same voice. Come sit.

July 26, 2026 The Fan Was Already On There was a woman at Second Baptist asked me once why I had that fan going during the freeze. I told her the kitchen held heat. She said, Delphine, it's thirty-one degrees outside. I said the kitchen held heat. Continue →
July 19, 2026 The Shape of a Silence You can raise a child around a silence the way you raise him around a piece of furniture. He learns to walk past it. He learns the shape of it in the dark. Continue →
July 12, 2026 He Asked Me Once He didn't look up when he said it. That's how I knew he'd been carrying it a while. Grandmama. What was my daddy like. Continue →
July 5, 2026 The Name I'd been thinking about that baby since the morning I brought the blanket. You do, with a new one. They get into your mind and they stay there, small and warm, like a coal you're keeping. So I made a gumbo and went back to Lacombe. Continue →
June 28, 2026 The Light Stays On Odessa's porch light went out sometime in the week and she didn't change it. A woman who lives alone learns to sit in the dark and call it fine. I keep bulbs. You keep what people forget to. Continue →
June 13, 2026 The First One The baby came on a Tuesday. I'd been knitting that blanket for two months. Soft cream, soft yellow. Not knowing who it was for yet. The Lord lets me know when somebody's coming. Continue →

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A Dozen Rifts · Port Saint Alora