Along the Guyandotte River

I was raised on a sliver of land,
wedged between coal dust and the Guyandotte,
where gospel hymns bent the air,
and Sundays felt like judgment day,
My grandfather stood like granite—
a man who built a church
but couldn’t make room inside for me.

The river never asked if I was going to hell.
It just flowed—muddy, honest,
carrying whispers downstream
like gossip that softened in the telling.

My family taught me how to fish,
how to pray,
how to fear people who didn’t look like us,
love us, think like us.
They were generous with dinner,
stingy with grace.
They took me on vacations
because someone had to.

When the time came,
I packed silence into suitcases—
left for college,
then for steel skylines,
cafés that didn’t close by seven,
and laughter louder than doctrine.

I didn’t choose the family by the river,
but I did choose the ones
who see me as sunrise,
not shadow.
Who love like water—constant,
soft on the edges,
able to reshape everything.

Now, I build holidays from scratch,
with friends who memorize
my coffee order
and ask if I’m safe
when the news breaks its own heart.

The Guyandotte still runs,
but I’m long downstream—
on shores where love doesn’t need a pulpit,
just a porch
and someone to sit beside me.