Abigail Greenbaum
Oxford, Mississippi
BY NOW, my third year here, I know that spring in northern Mississippi brings crows rioting in the bamboo behind my cottage, February paperwhites, and tornado watches. In the northern places where I lived before, spring was a season of gentleness and permission. We went hatless, inhaled without fear. But in Mississippi, spring reminds me that sometimes all I can do is take shelter, wait it out.
Funnel clouds are not the only source of hill-country danger. When a black widow bit my student, her skin swelled up into a mounded edema, spongy and thick. When she pressed a finger in, the print remained in her skin for maybe half an hour. Living here, I have learned to shake out my boots.
When I go running…