Is there anything more southern gothic than a Savannah Live Oak?
Or sometimes, when your feet lead you in the right direction, and there’s a very particular kind of Savannah quiet hanging on the humidity, and then sun splashes against the cobblestones just right, and your heart breaks in the best kind of way, and it’s just as if you’ve stepped back in time one-hundred years, or one-thousand. And you breathe deeper, and slower, and whatever hurry you were in sort of peels off you like a wet sweater. Ever press the palm of your hand against the prickly cool bark of a mossy Live Oak? You can feel the life there. The years of sunny afternoons a hundred years before you. All that life kind of soaks into your skin, and you’re a little bit healed. I imagine so.