They stood slowly out of the top of the box. They straightened their back and shifted weight from one hip to the other, and between the veil and the box They looked like a god shining beneath heaven.

You are the smell of cedar during a rainstorm. You are the porch, the chair, the cigarette and beer, sitting quietly listening to a chorus of cicadas calling to you from the reeds on a clear and humid summer night. You’re the earth and I’m the astronaut stranded on the moon. You are the harbor, and I am the sailor.

As we drive through, I’m struck by the neighborhood’s charm and moved uncomfortably by its character. Many of the houses have Christmas lights still up, and many couples gather close outside their doors to share cigarettes and conversation. It’s quaint with a subtle dirtiness; James reminds me that we’re in East Savannah, and though parts look pleasant enough, the place is far from it.