Her lips twist themselves into a resilient smile, a smile that has outlasted the sharp whip breaking the skin on a working woman's back. As I buy a basket, maybe she knows despite my culturally acceptable blonde hair and blue eyes, I'm a leaf blown off the family tree. But her smile seems to say we're all connected in some way. I hear her music surge through the basket fibers. I wander down Rainbow Row wondering if one can really go home, again.
Foreign accents blend in with subtle southern sarcasm.
A humming motorboat slices the murky water surrounding a postcard view of Fort Sumter. Lords of Discipline trot past an Indian restaurant, their faces replicas of O'Conner's Mystery and Manners. Shoppers purchase replicas of the nigger-nanny lore. A basket weaver continues her work, pieces of region fall in her lap. A glow outlines her face.