Essays

How exactly has it come to pass that Memphis, more than any of the places I have lived, speaks to me the loudest? Why exactly has Memphis gotten in my blood?

It’s impossible for humans to know the end from the beginning, whether writing a poem or attending a solemn ceremony.

Fifty years ago, Richard Nixon concluded his farewell speech with advice he probably wished he’d heeded. “Always remember,” he said, putting away his prepared remarks and looking out at the supporters whose trust he had betrayed, “others may hate you, but those who hate you don’t win unless you hate them, and then you destroy yourself.”

“What secret Morse is whispered root to stalk to root? What tremorous mystery is alive underground, even when leaves above brown and wither and branches snap at the touch? We forget how intricately we are all connected, even to our yards’ wind-tossed beings that explode pink in April and bronze in October.” Poet, playwright, and essayist Linda Parsons will appear at Addison’s Books in Knoxville on September 7.

I still remember the soccer fields at the edge of Nashville, off Highway 70. Way out in Bellevue by the Toys ’R Us and the Sonic and the psychic with the big white sign. We had to be there early for our games. Squinting hour, foggy hour. Can’t-finish-your-cereal hour.