Each day she filled this house with her person and her prayers. One of seven sisters and two brothers, a mother to four of her own: two older brothers, two younger sisters, two wives, one husband and the man who walked with them to church each Sunday.
The house stayed full, with very few beds, but porches that made due as sleeping space. The boards of the house seemed rough and tumbled on, with the persimmon tree that used to cover the kitchen window.
In bed, at night, with a string tied from the light above, curling down in its tight fit, to the iron rail that made the foot of her bed, you could see her face sitting up, checking to see each one was in bed, and her skinny, weary fingers pulling the string, the light snapping off, and then you would hear her pray.
It was many times that happened, but many more times it happened when fewer, or none were there.
Grandma lived, loved, cooked, cleaned, but always, always prayed.
Ralph Peck
Photography by Chris Hall
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