My Memoir – Where the Dark Things Grow
**The following is part of my memoir. Please go to this page for more information, as well as an easy-access list of each chapter.
“For thou wilt light my candle: the Lord my God will enlighten my darkness.”
Psalm 18:28
Jessie sat in the field near the walnut tree, watching as the day slowly gave itself over to night. Grannie Bradford’s house glowed softly in the distance, the porch light catching the edge of the trees. Lightning bugs floated over the grass, blinking like tiny embers, and somewhere deep in the woods a Whippoorwill called. The air was thick with the sound of crickets and frogs, a steady hum that seemed to hold the world together.
Jessie stayed there until Grannie’s voice called her in, gentle but certain, cutting through the dark like a lantern beam.
Inside, the house smelled of coffee and cornbread and Grannie’s favorite White Shoulders perfume.
Grannie sat beside Jessie on the bed. “You’ve had a busy day,” she said, tucking the sheet around her. “Tomorrow, we’ll go fishing. Would you like that?”
Jessie smiled and nodded, her eyes heavy.
“Goodnight, sweet girl.”
When the light switched off, the room slipped into moonlit quiet. The grandfather clock ticked steadily, a faucet dripped somewhere in the dark, and the night whispered just beyond the window, where tiny glass jars sat along the sill.
Shadows from the trees danced across the walls as Jessie drifted toward sleep, the world softening around her. In her dreams, the stars stayed bright and familiar, the air warm and safe. She wandered through memories that felt close enough to touch—Grannie’s laughter, the smell of rain, the hush of the fields at dusk.
And when she woke up, she was a grown woman, torn apart by the world.
My moments spent in Higden, Arkansas, on the banks of Greers Ferry Lake were the most magical and bittersweet of my life.
I go back there often—mentally and physically—trying to relive it, to grasp some trace of what once was. I was an innocent child who, despite growing up surrounded by domestic abuse and alcoholism, still saw the world’s beauty and magic through a child’s unclouded eyes.
My best friend was a German Shepherd named Dusty, who followed me everywhere. My family knew I’d be safe playing in the woods or down by the creek alone because Dusty was as protective and capable as any adult—she’d never let anything happen to me.
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