Jessica Dixon, Writer.

“I looked out the window of the prop plane, jostled by turbulence, and felt a thrill at my first sight of the brick-red soil, rich with iron. My brother and I used to announce the red dirt from the back seat of our mini-van on the long drives from Indiana to Roanoke, Virginia in the summer. It was a sign-post: proof we were getting closer to our great-grandma’s small house in the country, where she lived with a black cat whose head was permanently cocked, as if he were perpetually curious. We used to talk long walks down dirt roads until we reached the water wheel or the llama farm, picking wildflowers and marveling at the rich red clay.”

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