I. Mama’s out in the garden, pulling up weeds and carving holes in the ground. Jumbled words and a mouth coated in dirt ask to help. Assigned to the corner, away from all the magnolias and azaleas, little hands fling dirt into the sky until they reach clay, yanking out dried roots and gazing at rollie pollies scuttling over the contours of palms. Someday maybe she’ll plant roses like Mama.

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II. In church on Sunday, Mama sings in the choir, and a small voice calls after her in choruses and harmonies like cicadas in June. White robes sway with the rhythm of the hymns and so does a tulle skirt, uncoordinated and jolting, hands clapping a measure offbeat. They let God shake the roof above and the ground below little, black-flatted feet. Someday maybe she’ll croon like Mama.

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III. Mama cooks supper on Friday nights before the high school football game, frying chicken in a black cast iron pan, and honest blue eyes watch from the kitchen chair two feet away. Melted Crisco spits in the pan around fatty thighs. Leaning over, chubby fingers reach for metal tongs on the counter, but Mama snatches them away and tells her when she’s older. Someday maybe she’ll be like Mama.