A Love Letter to the Black Woodswomen of Deep East Texas

When you were 8, you could control the wind. The trees would listen, waving their long branches at you. The leaves would applaud as you made your way down Marcus Street. That was when the birds called your name and the squirrels followed you.

Back then, imagining was easy. Secret hidden treehouse sanctuaries that rivaled Peter Pan and the crew. The red wagon that could take you far, far away. That was when you still carried around that white stuffed dog, a ...